Your name on my coffee Book 1

Chapter 4 -- can I bear this nuisance!

The door was still vibrating from the quiet click he left behind.

Peterson picked up the black card between two fingers like it might burn him. No name. Just a number. And the faint, expensive smell of Anderson’s cologne still hanging in the air.

"What did you get us into, Linda?" he asked again. Softer this time.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Because before Peterson could say another word, my phone buzzed in my apron pocket.

One new message. Unknown number.

*2:03 PM. Table 5. Don’t be late.*

My blood went cold. I hadn’t given him my number.

Peterson saw my face change. "What is it?"

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

The office door opened again before he could.

Anderson.

He hadn’t left. He’d been standing right outside. Listening.

"Sorry to interrupt the disciplinary meeting," he said, pleasant as if we were discussing the weather. His eyes didn’t touch Peterson. They locked on me. On the phone in my hand. "But I forgot something."

He stepped in, closed the door behind him. Peterson stiffened.

"You’re not supposed to be—"

Anderson held up a hand. "Relax, Peterson. I’m not here to argue." He walked straight to my side of the desk. Too close. "I’m here to clarify."

He took the black card from Peterson’s fingers, turned it over, and wrote something on the back with a pen from Peterson’s desk. Then he slid it across to me.

On the front: the number.

On the back, in sharp black ink: *Employee of the Month. My table only.*

Peterson’s face went red. "That’s not— You can’t just—"

"Watch me," Anderson said mildly. Then he turned to Peterson, and the tone shifted. Not loud. Not angry. Something worse. Calculated.

"You run a restaurant, Peterson. I run PR. And right now, the story in this room is: ‘Wealthy client harasses waitress. Owner intervenes.’" He let that sit. "But I can change the headline."

He glanced at me. "Or I can make it: ‘CEO invests in struggling cafe. Mentors staff. Saves jobs.’"

Peterson stared. "Mentors?"

"Table 5. Every day. 2 p.m." Anderson’s smirk was back, but it wasn’t at me anymore. It was at Peterson. "Linda serves me. I talk. She learns. Customers see a billionaire eating here daily. Revenue goes up. Linda gets a ‘promotion’ without the paperwork. You keep your staff. Everyone wins."

He paused. Let it sink in.

"Unless you’d prefer the other version. The one where I leak the footage Victor has from the front. The one where Linda screams at a customer. Where you failed to control your floor."

Victor. With footage. Of course.

Peterson’s hands went flat on the desk again. This time to keep them from shaking. "You’re blackmailing me."

"I’m negotiating," Anderson corrected. "Big difference."

He looked at me then. Really looked. And for the first time, it wasn’t a challenge. It was an offer. A trap dressed as a lifeline.

"Your choice, Linda," he said quietly. "Armor off. Or armor on. But either way, you’re at Table 5 tomorrow. Because I said so. And because you want to know what’s under the smile too."

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He walked out. Again.

Leaving the card on the desk. Leaving Peterson fuming. Leaving me with a phone number I didn’t give, and a ‘promotion’ I never asked for.

Ariel’s voice cracked from the hallway. "Linda? Are you… okay?"

I wasn’t.

Because Anderson hadn’t twisted it into a punishment.

He’d twisted it into a game I was now forced to play. And he was the only one who knew the rules

---

The clock above the counter hit 1:58 PM.

I wasn’t supposed to be on shift. Peterson suspended me. “Without pay. Get out.”

But I was here anyway.

Because “I’ll be there tomorrow anyway. With or without you.”

Table 5 was empty. Clean. One black coffee, no sugar, steaming in the center. Like he’d ordered it ahead.

The bell jingled at 2:00 PM sharp.

Anderson.

Grey suit today. No jacket. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. He didn’t look around. He walked straight to Table 5, pulled out the chair opposite the coffee, and sat.

Then he looked up. At me.

I was standing by the pass, apron on, bandage changed to fresh white. Victor had put me back on floor “until Peterson decides”. Coward move. But I wasn’t going to argue.

Ariel was nowhere in sight.

Anderson tapped the seat across from him once. “You’re late.”

“It’s 2:00,” I said, walking over. My voice didn’t shake. Much.

“Exactly.” He picked up the coffee, didn’t drink. Just held it. “You came.”

I didn’t sit. “I’m working. Not playing your game.”

“Same thing,” he said. Then he set the cup down. Pushed it to the edge of the table. Toward me. “Sit.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll stand.” He stood. Slow. Until we were the same height, table between us. The whole restaurant went quiet again.

Victor disappeared into the back.

Anderson’s eyes dropped to my bandage. Fresh gauze. No brown edges today. “Heard you told the truth yesterday.”

My jaw locked. “You heard.”

“I was outside the door,” he admitted. No guilt. “You spilled the ice cream.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The question wasn’t cruel. It was clinical. Like he actually wanted the answer.

I exhaled. “Because you looked at me like I was invisible. And I was tired of being invisible.”

Something flickered in his face. Not a smirk. Not pity. Recognition.

He nodded once. “Fair.”

Then he did something I didn’t expect.

He slid the coffee off the table. Set it on the chair. Then he sat on the table itself. Right on Table 5. Like he owned the whole cafe.

“Now we’re even,” he said. “You embarrassed me in public. I embarrassed you yesterday. Debt paid.”

I stared at him. “That’s it?”

“No.” His eyes got sharp again. “That’s the beginning.” He patted the empty seat beside him on the table. “Sit, Linda. Because if you’re not here to play, then you’re here to work. And my ‘mentorship’ starts now.”

My pulse was in my throat. “And if I say no?”

“Then you walk out,” he said simply. “And I tell Peterson you refused a career opportunity. And the story becomes: ‘Waitress quits instead of learning.’”

He wasn’t threatening me. He was cornering me.

I looked at the door. At Victor hiding. At Ariel’s empty apron hook.

Then I sat. Not across from him. Beside him. On Table 5. My shoes dangling.

The wood was cold through my apron.

Anderson didn’t look surprised. He looked… satisfied.

“Good,” he murmured. “Lesson one: Armor off.” He reached out, and with one finger, tapped the edge of my fresh bandage. Not hard. Just once. “Lesson two: Stop lying. Even to yourself.”

The bell jingled again.

Mr Peterson stood in the doorway, briefcase in hand, staring at us. At me, sitting on his table. With Anderson.

Silence.

Anderson didn’t move. He just kept his eyes on me.

“Your move, Linda,” he said, soft enough that only I could hear.

The air in the cafe went thin.

I could hear the fridge humming. The drip of coffee. My own breathing.

Peterson was still in the doorway. Briefcase in hand. Eyes fixed on me. On my shoes dangling off Table 5.

Anderson didn’t look at him.

His gaze was locked on me. On the way my fingers were gripping the edge of the table so I wouldn’t fall. On the way my apron had shifted, showing a sliver of skin above my bandage.

“Lesson two,” he repeated, softer. “Stop lying. Even to yourself.”

My throat was dry. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cut in. “You’re lying right now. Sitting here because you think you have to. Because I backed you into a corner.” He leaned in, elbows on his knees. Now we were eye level. “But you didn’t have to come today, Linda. Peterson fired you. The door was open.”

He was right. And we both knew it.

I lifted my chin. “Then why did you tell me to come?”

“Because I wanted to see if you’d choose the game,” he said. No smirk. “And you did.”

His hand moved. Not to touch me. He reached past me, to the coffee cooling on the chair. He picked it up. Black. No sugar. The same one.

He held it out to me.

“Drink,” he said.

I stared at it. “It’s cold.”

“Good,” he said. “It won’t burn you this time.”

The double meaning hit me like a slap. Ice cream. Coffee. My bandage. All of it.

My hand shook as I took the cup. I didn’t drink. I just held it.

Anderson watched my fingers. Watched the way they curled around porcelain instead of pulling away.

“You’re not a victim,” he murmured. “You’re not entertainment. You’re not a toy.” He paused. “So stop acting like one.”

The cup was cold against my palm. My bandage was white and clean. For the first time in days, I wasn’t hiding it.

I brought the cup to my lips.

It tasted bitter. Old. But I swallowed.

Anderson’s eyes didn’t leave mine.

“Good girl,” he said. Barely a whisper.

My breath caught.

That’s when Peterson moved.

The briefcase hit the floor.

_Thud._

“Off. My. Table.”

His voice wasn’t tired anymore. It was ice.

I scrambled off Table 5 so fast my apron strings came loose. Anderson didn’t move. He stayed sitting on the wood like he’d been invited to dinner.

Peterson’s face was red. Not from anger. From humiliation. “Mr. Anderson, you have no right—”

“I have every right,” Anderson said, finally looking at him. Calm. “You invited me to ‘mentor’. I’m mentoring.” He gestured to me. “She’s learning. Fast.”

“She’s my employee!” Peterson snapped. “Or she was, until she lied to me and sat on my furniture!”

“She was your employee,” Anderson corrected. “Present tense is tricky, Peterson.” He stood, slow, brushing nonexistent dust from his suit. “I made her an offer. She took it.”

He looked at me. “Didn’t you, Linda?”

Everyone was waiting. Victor. The empty cafe. Peterson.

My mouth opened. Closed.

I was still holding the cold coffee.

And for the first time since the ice cream, I wasn’t sure what the truth was anymore.