Your name on my coffee Book 1

Chapter 3--try me if you can

" here is the coffee Mr anderson" I said placing the coffee on the table with smiles hovering around my face which I knew was frustrating him.

"Could you at least wipe off that fake smiles of your face,it's irritating"

My smile stayed plastered on my face. Sweet. Sharp. Fake as hell.

I tilted my head. Let the smile widen. "Oh? You don’t like it when I smile, sir? Yesterday you said I was ‘boring’. Today I’m ‘irritating’. I’m running out of moods that please you."

His jaw ticked. He reached for the cup.

The steam hit his face first. Then his fingers brushed the porcelain. Hot. Deliberately hot.

For half a second his eyes dropped to my bandage. The white gauze was already browning at the edges from the sink water earlier.

He paused.

“Careful,” he said. Low. Almost quiet. “You’re still injured.”

I blinked. That wasn’t in the script.

Victor cleared his throat again by the door. “Anderson. Your meeting.”

Anderson didn’t look away from me. “I know.”

He finally picked up the cup. Brought it to his lips. Sipped.

No flinch. No “accident”. No power play.

He set it down and leaned back, watching me over the rim.

“You think that smile makes you untouchable,” he murmured. “It doesn’t. It just makes me want to see what’s under it.”

My fake smile faltered for half a second.

The bell over the door jingled. Ariel rushed in, out of breath, apron clutched in her hands. She took one look at Table 5, at me standing too close, at his eyes locked on mine, and her whole face fell.

“Linda,” she said, voice small. “Break room. Now.”

Anderson’s gaze slid to her. Then back to me. Slow. Calculating.

And that smirk returned, but different this time. Not at me.

At _her_.

“Go,” he told me, tapping the table once. “But we’re not done, Linda. Not with the smile. Not with the armor.”

I turned on my heel, pulse racing, and followed Ariel to the back.

My fake smile faltered for half a second.

The bell over the door jingled. Ariel rushed in, out of breath, apron clutched in her hands. She took one look at Table 5, at me standing too close, at his eyes locked on mine, and her whole face fell.

“Linda,” she said, voice small. “Break room. Now.”

Anderson’s gaze slid to her. Then back to me. Slow. Calculating.

And that smirk returned, but different this time. Not at me.

At _her_.

“Go,” he told me, tapping the table once. “But we’re not done, Linda. Not with the smile. Not with the armor.”

I turned on my heel, pulse racing, and followed Ariel to the back.

But the second the break room door clicked shut, Ariel deflated.

She leaned against the sink and crossed her arms. No emergency. No crisis. Nothing.

I stared at her. “Ariel… what’s wrong? Is someone hurt?”

She looked away. “Nothing’s wrong.”

My stomach sank. “Then why did you drag me back here?”

Ariel bit her lip. Then the words spilled out, fast and ugly. “Because you were smiling at him like that. Talking back. He was looking at you, Linda. Not at me. Not at anyone else. Just you.”

Jealousy. Raw and stupid and real.

I exhaled, slow. “Ariel, you called me back here for _that_? There’s no fire. No manager. No accident. You just… wanted me to stop talking to him?”

“I didn’t want him looking at you like that!” she snapped, then immediately looked ashamed. “Forget it. Go back. It’s nothing.”

My jaw tightened. I wasn’t angry at Anderson anymore. I was angry at this.

I pushed the door open and walked back to the front without another word.

Anderson was still at Table 5. Cup half-finished. Eyes already on me, like he’d been waiting.

“You’re back,” he said. “That was quick.”

“False alarm,” I said, setting a fresh napkin on his table harder than I meant to. “My friend gets dramatic.”

He studied me. “You’re annoyed.”

“Obviously.”

The words came out sharper than I planned. My bandaged hand was trembling again, but not from the burn. From the humiliation of being pulled away like a child.

Anderson leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Careful, Linda. That tone again.”

“And what?” I shot back. “You’ll spill coffee on me? Again? Do it, Mr Colland. I’m tired of playing your game.”

His eyes flashed. “You want a game?”

“I want you to stop treating me like entertainment!” My voice rose. “I’m not your ice cream girl. I’m not your puzzle. I’m just trying to work!”

The whole restaurant went quiet.

Victor straightened by the door. Customers turned.

Anderson stood, slow. “You think you’re just a waitress? You called me entitled and blind in public. You’ve been throwing words at me since the mall. So don’t act like a victim now.”

“I’m not a victim!” I yelled. “I’m tired of you!”

The front door banged open.

Mr Peterson froze mid-step, briefcase in hand. His eyes darted from me, face red, to Anderson, standing over me, to the whole room staring.

Silence. Thick. Awful.

Then Mr Peterson’s mouth flattened. He looked… tired. Disappointed. Done.

“Enough,” he said, voice cutting through the air.

**""Linda pov****"""""

Anderson turned to find the owner of that voice, seeing who it was, a cunning smirk formed on his lips.

"look who we have here. bravo superhero"

The whole restaurant held its breath.

Mr Peterson didn’t flinch. He set his briefcase down with a quiet _thud_ that sounded louder than any yell. His eyes, sharp and tired, swept from Anderson’s smirk, to me with my trembling bandaged hand, to the dozen customers pretending not to watch.

"Mr. Anderson," Peterson said. Calm. Final. "My office. Now."

Anderson’s smirk didn’t drop. If anything, it got sharper. He dragged his gaze back to me, slow, like he was savoring the last second.

"Running to daddy, Linda?" he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear. "Or is it boss now?"

I didn’t answer. My throat was closed.

Anderson buttoned his suit jacket in one smooth motion. He looked at Peterson again. "Bravo, superhero," he repeated, softer this time. Almost amused. "Coming to save the damsel? Or fire the waitress?"

"Both of you," Peterson cut in. His voice didn’t rise, but it cracked like a whip. "Office. Five minutes. Or you’re both off the floor for good."

Victor finally moved, stepping aside from the door like he’d been holding his breath too. The spell broke. Chairs scraped. Customers looked down at their menus fast.

Ariel was still in the break room doorway, frozen, her face pale. Her eyes darted from me to Anderson to Peterson, and for the first time all day, she looked scared. Not jealous. Scared.

Anderson took one last step toward me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne over the coffee. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t need to.

He leaned down, voice dropping to only me. "You wanted me to stop treating you like entertainment," he said. "Careful what you wish for, Linda. The show’s just starting."

Then he straightened, and followed Peterson toward the back office without looking back.

I stood there, napkin still crumpled in my good hand, customers staring, my face burning hotter than the coffee ever was.

Ariel whispered behind me. "Linda… I’m so sorry."

I didn’t turn around.

Because Mr Peterson’s office door clicked shut, and I could already hear Anderson’s low voice through the wood.

And it wasn’t angry.

It was intriguing.

The office door shut behind us with a click that felt like a lock.

Mr Peterson’s office was small. Sterile. Awards on the wall, a desk with a stack of order slips, and one window that looked out onto the alley behind the restaurant. No audience here. Just the three of us.

Peterson didn’t sit. He stood behind his desk, hands flat on the wood, eyes hard. "Explain."

Anderson did sit. He took the chair opposite the desk like he owned it, crossed one leg over the other, and let out a slow breath. He didn’t look at Peterson. He looked at me.

I stayed standing by the door. My bandaged hand was curled into a fist.

"Explain what?" Anderson said finally. Easy. "That your waitress has a mouth on her? That she provoked me in front of customers? That she’s been baiting me since the mall incident?"

"Linda," Peterson snapped. "Your side."

I forced my voice steady. "He started it. At the mall. He spilled ice cream on me. On purpose. Today he said my smile was irritating. He made me feel—" My voice cracked. "Like I was a toy."

Anderson’s head tilted. "A toy?" He almost laughed. "Linda, you’ve been smiling at me, talking back, throwing napkins. You wanted a reaction. You got one."

"Enough," Peterson said. "Mr. Anderson, you’re a client, but you don’t get to bully my staff. Linda, you don’t get to scream at customers. Both of you crossed a line."

Anderson leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The smirk was gone now. That was worse.

"Bullying," he repeated, tasting the word. Then his eyes flicked to me again. Slow. Assessing. "You think that’s what this is, Peterson?"

He stood. Not fast. Deliberate. He walked past Peterson’s desk until he was two steps from me. Close enough that I had to tilt my chin up to hold his stare.

"I don’t bully people who bore me," he said, low. Only for me. "I don’t remember their names. I don’t watch their hands shake. I don’t notice when their fake smile breaks."

My breath caught.

Anderson’s gaze dropped to my bandage. The brown edges. The sink water. Then back to my eyes.

"You’re not a victim, Linda," he murmured. "And you’re not entertainment. You’re a problem. One I haven’t figured out yet."

The room went quiet. Even Peterson didn’t speak.

Anderson turned to Peterson then, and the cunning smirk slid back into place like armor.

"So here’s what’s going to happen," he said. "You’re not firing her. You’re not banning me. Because the moment you do, this becomes a story. And you know I tell stories very well."

Peterson’s jaw worked. "Are you threatening my business?"

"No," Anderson said. "I’m investing in it." He pulled a card from his jacket and dropped it on Peterson’s desk. Black. No title. Just a number. "Table 5. Every day. 2 p.m. I’ll be there. And so will Linda."

He looked at me one last time.

"Not done with the smile," he said. "Not done with the armor."

Then he walked out. The door didn’t slam. It closed quiet. Worse.

Peterson stared at the card like it was a bomb. Then at me.

"Linda," he said, voice tired now. Not angry. Tired. "What did you get us into?"

I had no answer.

Because outside the door, I could hear Anderson’s footsteps slowing. Like he was waiting to see if I’d follow.