“Mr. Kim-Prescott,” I say, adjusting my glasses on the bridge of my nose. “Would you like your regular?”

He nods. “Please. And Ellie?” He flashes me his most winning smile. “You can call me Andrew.”

If a Burberry coat were a person, it would be Andrew Kim-Prescott. This evening, he’s wearing a navy pin-striped suit under a herringbone trench, his black hair arranged in its signature wave over dark brown eyes and a luxurious pair of cheekbones. He checks the gold Bulova watch on his wrist, and I swoon.

I like my men like I like my life goals: unattainable.

It’s not even that he’s wealthy (though he is). And it’s not even that he’s laughably handsome (though he really is). I look forward to Andrew’s visits because for the length of time it takes for me to prepare his sixteen-ounce green matcha latte with cashew milk, I’m distracted from thoughts of selfish mothers and mean bosses, of social anxiety and failure, of being lonely and lost. Because it’s impossible to look at Andrew’s face and experience negative thoughts.

“Hey, Andrew,” Ari says casually to the man who owns this building, and the building next to it, and the building next to that, like a young, surprisingly hot Dickensian landlord. (That’s how I usually draw him, anyway.)

He’s technically not our boss, but without him and the real estate investment firm his family owns, Greg never would have fulfilled his dream of selling overpriced, over-roasted coffee. Andrew comes by at least once a month to get updates on the business and drink his hipster hot beverage.

“Ari. Good to see you,” Andrew purrs. Even his voice is expensive, like cashmere, or ordering an appetizer before your entrée instead of ordering an appetizer as your entrée.

He finishes paying and comes around the counter to stand across from me like Tuesday Jeff did. “So, Ellie. Do you have any plans for this evening?”

This feels like a trap, like he and Ari are setting me up to uncover my lies. I don’t have plans. I never have plans. “I—”

“Andrew! You’re here!” Greg comes flying out from the kitchen, because he has a preternatural ability to smell Andrew’s presence. Which, incidentally, smells of bergamot and lots of money. “I read about your grandfather’s passing in The Oregonian,” Greg says with his usual amount of tact. Which is to say, none. “Our condolences.”

Andrew conjures a charming smile. “Thanks.”

Roastlandia’s landlord is the heir apparent to Prescott Investments, a major firm that owns a healthy chunk of Portland’s real estate. For a city that prides itself on being distinctly anti-capitalism, Portland loves the Prescotts. Maybe because they’re good at appearing philanthropic even as they erect the same generic apartment buildings all over town, gentrifying everything from the Columbia River down to Sellwood.