Claire was running late. Again.
She sprinted down the bustling city sidewalk, dodging people, food carts, and the occasional pigeon, her phone wedged between her shoulder and ear. Her best friend, Sophie, was on the other end, laughing at her misery.
“Just admit it, Claire. You’re incapable of being on time,” Sophie teased.
“I am not!” Claire huffed, clutching her oversized tote bag. “I had exactly three minutes to choose between breakfast and brushing my hair. Guess which one I picked?”
“Breakfast,” Sophie said without hesitation.
“Obviously.”
Claire turned the corner and, in true rom-com fashion, her left heel gave out with a spectacular snap. She stumbled, arms flailing, and landed in the middle of the sidewalk. Her tote spilled its contents—a mix of lip glosses, random receipts, and one very suspicious granola bar.
“Perfect,” she muttered, gathering her things while Sophie cackled through the phone.
Before she could fully embrace her humiliation, a deep voice interrupted her thoughts.
“You okay down there, or is this a new yoga pose I’m not cool enough to know about?”
Claire looked up and froze. Towering over her was a guy with messy dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a grin that could probably sell toothpaste. He held out a hand.
“Broken heel,” Claire mumbled, taking his hand and letting him help her up.
“Well, that’s one way to stop traffic,” he said, gesturing to the small group of onlookers. Claire wanted to melt into the pavement.
“Thanks,” she muttered, brushing herself off.
“Anytime,” he said, handing her the granola bar she’d dropped. “But maybe skip breakfast bars for stilettos next time.”
“Noted,” Claire said, her tone dry.
As he walked away, she noticed the logo on his coffee cup: Bean There, Drunk That. It was her favorite coffee shop, a block from her office. She made a mental note to avoid it for the next decade.
---
Fate, however, had other plans.
The very next morning, Claire was back at Bean There, Drunk That. She hadn’t been able to resist the siren call of their caramel lattes, broken heel boy be damned.
The universe, naturally, laughed at her audacity because there he was, standing in line ahead of her.
She tried to duck behind a very tall man, but it was too late. He turned, coffee in hand, and spotted her immediately.
“Well, if it isn’t Stiletto Girl,” he said, his grin widening.
Claire sighed. “You’re going to call me that forever, aren’t you?”
“Only if you keep showing up in heels,” he teased.
She crossed her arms. “For your information, I’m wearing flats today.”
“Smart choice,” he said, glancing at her feet before looking back at her with an amused expression. “I’m Ethan, by the way.”
“Claire,” she said, her voice reluctantly softening.
“Nice to officially meet you, Claire,” Ethan said, holding out a coffee. “Caramel latte, right?”
Her jaw dropped. “How did you—”
“You muttered something about it while you were picking up your granola bar,” he said, his grin turning smug. “You’re a predictable mystery.”
Claire couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, thanks, but I can buy my own coffee.”
“Consider it an apology for teasing you yesterday,” Ethan said. “And maybe a bribe so you don’t avoid this place because of me.”
She narrowed her eyes but took the coffee. “Fine. But only because I’m late for work.”
---
Over the next few weeks, Claire kept running into Ethan—at the coffee shop, at the corner deli, once even at a bookstore where he loudly argued with her about why romance novels absolutely count as literature.
It turned out Ethan was funny, charming, and annoyingly good at making her laugh. He had a way of showing up just when she thought her day couldn’t get any worse, like the universe had sent him to personally challenge her aversion to spontaneous human interaction.
One afternoon, after a particularly grueling meeting, Claire walked into Bean There, Drunk That to find Ethan sitting at a table with two lattes.
“Is this a setup?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Depends,” he said, sliding one of the lattes across the table. “Are you going to sit down, or are you going to make me drink both of these?”
Claire sat, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “Fine. But if this is some elaborate ploy to ask me out—”
“It’s absolutely a ploy to ask you out,” Ethan interrupted, leaning back in his chair. “Subtlety isn’t my thing.”
Claire blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. Well, in that case... okay.”
Ethan tilted his head. “Okay?”
“Okay,” she repeated, a laugh bubbling out of her. “But only because you bribed me with coffee.”
“I’ll take it,” Ethan said, raising his cup in a toast.
Claire clinked her cup against his, realizing that maybe, just maybe, broken heels weren’t the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
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