Rescued By the Billionaire by Lisa Kaatz

1

He said his name was Lincoln. I wrote it in permanent marker on the side of the empty paper cup, my shaking hand causing my handwriting to be even worse than it usually was. When he handed me his credit card - one of the nice ones, heavy and solid, matte black - I spied his name on the side of it.

I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

“Lincoln Taylor,” I murmured. “Two names for two presidents.”

His head jerked up from his phone, where he’d been furiously tapping out a message, seemingly unaware of the world around him.

“What?” he asked. His eyes searched my face, impatience etched onto his sharp, angular features.

“Nothing.”

I felt my cheeks flush. I handed his card back quickly, ripping his receipt from the printer and sliding it across the counter for his signature.

“You said something about presidents,” he said, looking at me with cool, clear blue eyes. They were framed in thick, dark lashes. Even I - a self-declared asexual who had been living like a nun for the last ten years - had to admit that he was attractive.

Seconds of deafening silence ticked by while my cheeks grew hotter. Why had I said anything at all? Making small talk with customers violated one of my most sacred personal rules. I preferred to be heads down behind the coffee machines, and on the odd day that I was forced behind the cash register, I had a policy of saying the fewest number of words possible.

I preferred it this way and so did my manager. When I got in front of people, I tended to say stupid things. My hands moved gracefully and fluidly behind the polished stainless steel of the industrial grade espresso machine, but as soon as I was put in front of a customer, my tongue turned to lead. Stupid, stupid lead.

With quick hands and a high pain tolerance - useful for when a shot of piping hot espresso inevitably spilled over the edge of the glass and onto your fingers - I was the ideal barista to have on staff during the Monday morning rush. But today was different. Sam had called in sick today, so I’d had to cover the cash register and the drip machines while Adam handled the espresso bar.

Adam sucked at bar duty. But he liked it because he could text behind the counter in between drinks. And Adam always got what he wanted because he was screwing our general manager, Melissa.

But that was beside the point.

Why had I broken my “no small talk with customers” policy? And with this man, of all people? The notoriously rude one, the one who never tipped, the one whose custom tailored suit was likely five times the worth of my car. And worst of all, the one who was so good-looking that all of my female coworkers - and in Sam’s case, male coworker - swooned at the sight of him despite the fact that he was almost always an insufferable asshole to everyone that he encountered.

While Sam, Melissa, and the other female staff might have been able to overlook his lack of manners, I couldn’t. What good was money, if you were greedy with it? What did it matter how beautiful you were, if you were always scowling?

Lincoln hurriedly scrawled his signature - more of a zig-zagged blur than anything resembling a name - across the bottom of the receipt, and slid it back across the counter. No tip. As usual.

“What did you say about presidents?” he asked again, this time a lot louder. Adam looked up from his phone with interest.

“It’s dumb,” I mumbled. “Your names, they’re both presidents.”

He looked at me, a faint crease forming between his brows as though he didn’t quite understand the words I was speaking.

“Lincoln, for Abraham Lincoln,” I explained slowly, biting my lip. “And Taylor, like Zachary Taylor.”

He said nothing, still looking at me with cold annoyance.

“I just thought it was an interesting coincidence,” I shrugged, looking down and tucking my permanent marker back into my apron. “Sorry.”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but the phone in his hand began to ring. I sighed in relief when he finally tore his icy gaze away from me, answering his phone in a clipped, harsh manner. Lincoln Taylor was now the problem of whoever currently had the misfortune of talking to him over the phone. Not mine.

“Hey Walker!” Adam shouted at me from the bar. “Want to hand me that cup now that you’ve stopped gawking at the eye candy? I imagine he’ll be wanting his drink eventually.”

I shoved the cup at him and glared, but he just gave me a cheeky grin, the silver hoop in his lip gleaming. Adam was approaching his forties but still wasn’t quite over the emo craze of the early aughts. It was kind of pathetic. Not that I was in any position to be judging someone else’s sense of style, I guess.

Lincoln had been the last of the morning rush. With customers clearing out, I untied my apron.

“Think you can manage bar and cash register while I take a break?” I asked Adam, raising a brow at him.

“Me? No problemo,” he said. “Got it covered.”

He casually rested his elbow on the espresso machine as if to emphasize his point, accidentally setting off the steam wand, which promptly directed a stream of piping-hot steam towards his groin.

“Fuck!”

I stifled a laugh as I grabbed my purse from underneath the counter, leaving my folded apron there. Today was a long shift, which meant I got an hour break now, and an hour later. Thank god.

It was one of those early autumn days where the air was crispy and cool, just the slightest chill in the air, a hint of what was to come. I escaped the confines of the coffeeshop and inhaled the smell of trees and fallen leaves deeply, closing my eyes. It was nice to smell something other than stale espresso for a while, though the scent of coffee never truly left my clothes or hair these days. When you worked at a coffee bar six days a week, it tended to get everywhere. Like cigarette smoke, or cat piss.

I sat at one of the tiny wrought iron tables we had outside. My favorite thing about this job - and there weren’t lot of good things about it - was the fact that it was across the street from Avery University. The banners in the front commemorating Homecoming were a loud combination of blue and yellow, flapping in the breeze. But behind it was the breath-taking architecture that I’d spent many hours over the summer staring at. Staring, and sketching.

I nursed my latte as I scanned the building, looking for a detail or a feature I hadn’t yet drawn. I knew the front area by heart - seven columns, two sets of double doors, and a clock adorned with brass roman numerals near the crest of the roof. It chimed every hour. Sometimes when it chimed, people flooded from the doors below it, hurrying to their next class, clutching textbooks to their chests and chatting side by side.

I took my sketchbook out and began drawing - but not the university. Today, I just didn’t feel up to it. So I started drawing something from memory, shapes and lines and shadows that eventually developed into a set of haunting, hypnotic eyes.

“So, do you know all of the presidents or just some of them?”

I screamed, jumping up from my chair. My knee bashed into the heavy wrought iron table, causing my latte to leap into the air and fall back down on the table, lid popping off, hot brown liquid spilling onto the pages of my sketchbook. The one with the nice paper. The one I had just bought from the art supply store down the road, spending all of my tip money that I really should have been saving for groceries this week.

“Shit!” I hissed. “Shit! Shit!”

It was like when you see a car accident. I didn’t know what to do. Pick up the cup of coffee and try to salvage what remained of my sketchbook? Grab my charcoal pencils and prevent them from being saturated? Rescue my purse, which had been sitting underneath the table and was now covered in coffee droplets?

My heart was pounding and I couldn’t do any of this. I just stared in horror and dismay at the scene unfolding in front of me until I could finally look up and locate the source of the voice. The person who had interrupted my quiet time, my brief few moments of serenity during an otherwise horrible shift.

Lincoln freaking Taylor.

“You,” I groaned. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I get a lot of different reactions from women,” he remarked. “But this one is a first.”

“I’m getting napkins and cleaning this up,” I growled, turning on my heel and stomping back inside.

Seeing the liquid stains that were across the front of my pants, Adam wiggled his eyebrows at me from behind the counter, where he was lazily working on a latte for a solitary early afternoon customer. I didn’t know who I wanted to kill more - him, or Lincoln.

I grabbed a wad of napkins and stormed back outside, fully expecting Lincoln to be gone by now.

He wasn’t.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said, hands in his pockets.

“It’s fine,” I said, bending under the table and retrieving my bag and examining the damage. It was one of the few nice purses that I had - deep, rich brown leather, heavy metal hardware, small enough to stuff under the counter at work but large enough to hold my sketchbook. I’d found it a couple of weeks ago at the thrift store for just five dollars. A steal.

The smooth leather surface was now mottled with dark brown spots. It figured. Nothing nice of mine was ever meant to stay around.

“Let me help,” he offered, touching my arm. Electricity shot through me, as though triggered by the contact. “It’s my fault your stuff is damaged.”

“No,” I snapped. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

“Let me replace your purse,” he said. “And your notebook.”

“Sketchbook,” I said.

“Sketchbook,” he agreed.

I peered up at him. He seemed even taller now, without a counter and an apron between us.

“Why are you being nice to me?” I asked slowly, narrowing my eyes.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“Offering to help me clean up and...and offering to replace my things,” I said, waving a hand at my ruined sketchbook, which sat on the wrought iron table, pages wrinkled and shriveled, drying in the sun. The eyes I had been drawing were smeared now. But looking at Lincoln, I now realize why those shapes and lines and shadows had felt familiar.

“It’s just common courtesy, I thought,” he said with a shrug, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“Since when are you courteous?” I mumbled.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I snapped. “Could you please leave me alone? I only have like thirty more minutes of my break and I’d like to spend as much time as possible not on my feet.”

“You said since when am I courteous,” he said. “What gives you the impression that I’m not courteous?”

“You’re always rude,” I said. The back of my neck was heated. I knew better than to be talking to a customer like this. Even if I was off the clock. As Melissa would say, “When you work for Grindz Coffee, you are Grindz Coffee.” Whatever that meant.

“How can you possibly know that?” he asked. “We just met.”

Ice ran through my veins and at first, the only response I could muster was a choked laugh. I dropped the napkins I’d been using to attempt to mop up the coffee, and slowly turned on my heel.

“Are you serious?” I said in a hollow voice. My throat was tight and my fists were balled at my side. “I have been making your coffee every morning for eighteen months.”

“No you haven’t,” he said flatly.

“Medium cappuccino, extra hot, dry,” I recited his order robotically. I knew it by heart - then again, I knew a lot of people’s orders by heart, and Lincoln’s wasn’t exactly complicated.

To his credit, Lincoln was speechless.

“You’re telling me you’ve made that for me every single morning?” he repeated, running a hand through his hair.

When he did that, my throat loosened and I thought I felt something fluttering just behind my navel.

“Monday through Friday,” I nodded. “Usually I’m behind the bar, not the cash register.”

“Well, that’s it,” he said. “If you’re hidden behind a bar the whole time you can’t expect me to remember - ”

“You get here between nine and nine thirty most days, usually later on Thursday mornings,” I said, raising my voice over his. “You drive a black BMW, but one morning you had a pick up truck. That morning you weren’t wearing a suit. Oh, and you always have the latest model iPhone, which is lucky I guess, since it seems like you spend your entire life with your face glued to the stupid fucking thing.”

As soon as I finished saying the words, I wished I could take them back. Cursing at a customer seemed over the line, even if he did scare the crap out of me and make me spill my coffee all over the place.

Lincoln stared at me. His dark brown hair was messy in the back and backlit by the sun, which had come out in full force since my break had first started. His cool blue eyes looked almost green out here.

I thought of apologizing, but thought better of it. The words were already out now. Apologizing so soon afterwards would make me look weak. I wasn’t wearing the apron right now. I didn’t have to kiss his ass.

“Abby?”

Dread filled the bottom of my stomach.

“Abby Walker.”

The voice grew closer and I heard a click-click-clicking approaching, my boss’s calling card. Melissa was the only woman at Grindz Coffee who made that noise when she walked - because you’d have to be insane to wear heels in a food service job, much less Louboutin stilettos. Melissa wore them for the same reason she wore everything else on her body, including her heavily botoxed face - status. Because everyone knew when you had Louboutins. The bright red bottoms were a signal to the rest of the world. They said: “I’m better than you.”

Something Lincoln and Melissa had in common, I guessed.

“Sir, is this woman bothering you?” she asked, turning to Lincoln. She had that goo-goo eyed look she always got when he came around. I didn’t know why - sure, he was good looking. But was he that good looking? We had handsome patrons come in fairly often, but Lincoln was the only one that Melissa and everyone else seemed to fawn over for some reason.

“Not at all,” he said, looking down at her.

“I heard shouting,” she said, frowning. Her caked-on makeup formed a crease where her brow furrowed as she looked from me to Lincoln in exaggerated concern.

“Just some good natured teasing,” he said, looking at me and giving me a smile. “Right, Abby?” My heart did a funny flip-flop when he said my name.

“Right,” I agreed.

Why was he bailing me out?

“Sir, I cannot allow you to cover for her,” she said, putting one hand on her chest, and the other on his bicep. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I heard the whole thing. You don’t have to defend her. Abby has been nothing but trouble since the day we hired her. Don’t worry, we’ll deal with this immediately. Now, let me get you some drink vouchers. Can we remake that for you?”

She nodded at the upturned coffee cup on the table.

“That was mine, not his,” I snapped.

“Sir, I am so sorry about this,” Melissa continued on as though I said nothing. “In my business - I own Grindz, you see - I value the customer experience above all else.”

“My customer experience has been fine,” he said curtly. “Abby’s sketchbook, however, is a little worse for wear.”

“Right,” Melissa said, no longer able to avoid talking to me. “Well, Abby, you know what I’ve told you about sketching on the job. I swear,” she turned back to Lincoln, as though telling him a secret. “I can’t remember how many times I’ve caught her behind the counter, sketching the customers instead of cleaning.”

“That was one time,” I said loudly behind her. “And it was a slow night. I’d already done all of the cleaning!”

“I’m sure you can relate,” Melissa pressed on, talking over me. “I mean, I can’t imagine the kinds of situations you must deal with in your line of work.”

Lincoln said nothing, though that muscle in his jaw twitched again.

“Abby,” Melissa said over her shoulder. “Turn in your name tag. You’ve messed up for the last time.”

“What?”

Melissa turned back to Lincoln. Clearly, she was done talking to me. I gathered my soggy sketchbook and pencils and stuffed them into my bag, slinging it over my shoulder and stomping back inside the coffeeshop.

I’d seen Melissa fire people for a lot of reasons before. And to her credit, those people usually had it coming. There had been Krista, who smoked weed in the bathrooms and was finally caught when she left a blunt on top of the paper towel dispenser for an irate customer to find the next day. There was also Jessica, who had stolen five pounds of espresso beans and an entire weeks’ worth of tips from the safe. And then there was George, who, while he tried his hardest, was just too damn clumsy to be a barista.

Was I really among the ranks of the Kristas, Jessicas, and Georges of the world? Had I really been messing up since the day I’d been hired?

Sure, I wasn’t the best with customers. But I was friendly enough. I’d never had a complaint before. And wasn’t I was the fastest behind the bar on the whole staff? And the only one who was willing to work the 4 am opening shifts. I’d even worked on Christmas Day last year, for which I’d been promised to be paid overtime but wasn’t. Still, I hadn’t complained.

“Back from break already?” Adam said, grinning at me.

“I’m fired,” I said, ripping my name tag from my shirt and throwing it down on the counter.

His smile faded.

“What? Why?”

“I’ve been nothing but trouble since the day I started,” I said in a singsong voice. I jerked my head over my shoulder, where Melissa and Lincoln still stood outside. “And Melissa over there obviously wants Fancy Business Guy’s dick, so I’d keep an eye on her if I were you.”

“You really think so?” his face contorted with concern. Adam had been such an annoying coworker that I had never considered that I might miss working with him. Now I felt a pang in my stomach. Me, missing Adam? Hell must be freezing over.

“You could do much better,” I said softly. “Just, um...take the lip ring out, okay? And maybe stop dying your hair jet black.”

I turned around to leave. Melissa and Lincoln were still standing out there - Melissa with her chest stuck out, twirling a strand of fried, bleached hair around a skinny finger, Lincoln with his hands in his pockets, head ducked down to listen to her, nodding periodically. Melissa was talking animatedly, a sickening grin stretched across her plastic face. She was no doubt filling his head with more poisonous lies about me. Or maybe just seducing him.

If I walked out the front door, I’d have to pass by them both on my way to my car. I knew how it would go. I would have to listen to Melissa’s voice fall to a hushed whisper as I passed, full of fake concern and pity. Lincoln’s cool blue gaze burning a hole in my back as he watched me walk to my rust bucket of a car.

I walked behind the counter instead, to the back room, and out the door that led to the dumpster. Luckily, I’d parked on the side of the building this morning, out of view from Lincoln and Melissa. I prayed my car would start.

It did.

And it carried me out of the parking lot, away from humiliation, away from them.