Chapter 7 - A New Chapter at Rowan Street
Back in the city, autumn had begun to turn the leaves along Rowan Street into a brilliant tapestry of amber and gold. The coffee shop was busier than ever, its cozy interior radiating warmth against the crisp October chill.
I was behind the counter, foaming milk for a caramel macchiato, when the bell above the door chimed.
A tall man in a well-tailored navy coat stepped inside, shaking a few stray raindrops from his umbrella before folding it neatly and placing it in the ceramic stand by the door. He had sharp, intelligent eyes, a warm smile, and a quiet confidence that didn't need to shout to fill a room.
His name was David Vance—no relation to my uncle Marcus, despite the shared surname—an independent urban developer specializing in sustainable community housing and historic restoration projects that Vantage Capital frequently partnered with. We had met briefly during a municipal zoning hearing six months ago, long before the yacht incident, and had shared a few quiet conversations over black coffee at this very counter.
He walked straight up to the counter, leaning against the wood with an easy, genuine grin.
“Afternoon, Sienna,” David said, his voice rich and steady. “Is the barista with no future available to talk shop over a cortado, or is she currently busy running a multi-billion-dollar private equity firm?”
I paused, holding the steaming pitcher, and felt a genuine, unforced smile spread across my face.
“Depends,” I said, tilting my head. “Are you here to talk about sustainable urban zoning, or are you just trying to get free pastries?”
“A little bit of both,” David laughed, resting his chin on his hand. “Though I hear the owner of this place is notoriously strict about inventory.”
“She is,” I replied, sliding the freshly poured cortado across the counter toward him. “But she’s willing to make an exception for someone who actually knows how to treat a partner with respect.”
David took a sip, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at me with an expression that held neither condescension nor calculation—only warmth, curiosity, and mutual regard.
“Good to know,” he said softly. “So, are you free for dinner tonight? A real restaurant, where nobody throws drinks, and the conversation is actually worth the price of admission.”
May you like
I unclipped my apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the shelf beneath the counter.
“I’d love that,” I said.
