Chapter Thirteen
The bitter past.
Café Espresso wasn’t a classy joint by any stretch of the imagination. A cheap eatery in the Stratford Centre Mall with coffee that tasted like dishwater and stale pastries old enough to vote. Its clientele consisting of burned out office workers and blue-collar slobs hardly elevated the status. It wasn’t exactly a greasy spoon, a term I’d learned to embrace during my time in the UK, but it was hardly an artisan coffee spot either.
Which is why, when Bekka breezed through the door wearing more makeup than the founder of Max Factor and a fur gilet that couldn’t have been comfortable given the warm spring temperatures, the entire clientele turned to look at her.
I just about held back an eye roll and simply smiled.
“Bekka, glad you could make it,” I sai
