Chapter 9
Jamie wasn’t sure if this counted as work.
But he wasn’t about to argue.
Blake had popped by his desk mid-morning, said, “Grab your coat, Capulet – we’re going out,” and before Jamie could ask a single follow-up question, he was being ushered into the sunshine and down the street to a coffee shop two blocks from the office.
The place was small, indie, and filled with the scent of freshly ground beans, vanilla, and baked sugar. Plants dangled from the ceiling. The baristas wore beanies and tattoos like armor. The chalkboard menu read like a poem: honey oat flat white, cinnamon maple cortado, lavender foam cappuccino.
Blake chose a small table by the window and motioned for Jamie to sit.
Jamie slid into the seat, raising an eyebrow. “Is this what being lead writer gets me now? Croissants and field trips?”
Blake smirked. “This is how I work. You don’t sell to people you don’t understand.”
He gestured to the room with two fingers. “So. What do you see?”
Jamie scanned the space.
A student hunched over a laptop.
A mother with a toddler sharing banana bread.
Two sharply dressed guys reviewing a presentation.
A young woman scrolling through Pinterest, sipping from a biodegradable straw.
“Everyone’s doing something,” Jamie said slowly. “Coffee’s not the product. It’s the background. The anchor.”
Blake nodded. “Go on.”
Jamie leaned forward slightly, warming to it. “They’re not buying beans. They’re buying a moment. A pause. A routine that makes them feel… like themselves.”
He glanced around again, more confident now.
“A latte isn’t just a drink. It’s identity. That guy?” He nodded toward a man with three bracelets and very shiny boots. “He didn’t order the honey oat cortado because he was thirsty. He ordered it because it sounded like him.”
Blake leaned back, watching Jamie like he was the most interesting thing in the café.
Jamie paused.
Oh. That look again.
He shifted slightly. “Too much?”
“Not at all,” Blake said, smiling. “You’re seeing it. Feeling it. That’s half the job.”
A barista called Blake’s name.
He got up, returned a minute later carrying two lattes – rich, steaming, perfectly foamed – and a paper bag.
He placed one latte in front of Jamie.
And the bag beside it.
Jamie opened it.
A croissant. Buttery. Golden. Still warm.
He blinked up. “How do you…?”
“You mentioned it on the plane,” Blake said casually, blowing the steam off his own cup. “Between the sock confessions and the part where you said you hate sushi but still pretend to like it.”
Jamie let out a soft laugh. “You have an incredible memory.”
Blake met his eyes. “I remember what matters.”
Oh. That was… a lot.
They sipped in companionable silence for a moment, watching the ebb and flow of the café.
Blake set down his cup. “You’ve got good instincts. You notice the things people miss.”
Jamie shrugged, looking down. “I’m just guessing, really.”
“No,” Blake said gently. “You’re observing. There’s a difference.”
Jamie glanced up.
Blake held his gaze, steady, certain. “Told you. You can do this. You just have to believe that you’re enough.”
Jamie stared at the foam in his cup.
It was easy to forget things like that – especially when you spent so much time pretending.
He traced the rim of the mug with his thumb. “It’s hard to believe it when I’ve spent so long pretending to be better than I am.”
Blake didn’t look away. “You’re not pretending now.”
Jamie’s chest tightened slightly.
He gave a small, uncertain smile.
Blake added, softer now, “And for the record – this version of you? The one eating a croissant, thinking too hard, overanalyzing people’s drink orders?”
A pause.
“He’s the best one.”
Jamie looked down quickly, trying to hide the heat rising to his face.
That shouldn’t mean this much. It absolutely does.
They finished their coffee in the quiet between two beats of life – the city outside moving fast, but the space between them warm and still.
Jamie didn’t know what this was.
Not exactly.
But for the first time in a long time…
He didn’t feel like he had to perform.
He just… was.