Latte Trouble - By Cleo Coyle Page 0,4

and pressed me back toward the front door in a gentle but infuriating send-off. Capping more steam than a two-boiler espresso machine, I marched away—but not to the front door. Instead, I returned to the coffee bar for a much-needed shot to calm my nerves. In the words of Moe Howard, “I wanted to brain him.”

Back at the bar, I found Tucker pulling espressos and chatting with Lottie’s two business partners, Tad Benedict and Rena Garcia.

“How’s Tuck doing?” I whispered to Moira.

The girl shrugged. “He won’t talk about it. Just said, ‘Men are pigs, and they should die’ again and left it at that.”

Well, whatever happened, Tucker seems over it now, I thought with relief.

Just then, Esther Best appeared at the bar. I blinked in surprise. “Shouldn’t you be at the door?” I said.

Esther shrugged. “The frou-frou train has slowed considerably. I left one of those walking brown string beans to guard the entrance since it sure looks like Matt is too busy hitting on Breanne Summour to relieve me anytime soon.”

“What’s her name again?” I asked, since Matt hadn’t bothered to mention Miss Elegant’s name.

Rena Garcia, Lottie’s business partner, overheard me and replied, “Breanne Summour is the editor-in-chief of Trend magazine. And Trend is very influential with the upscale crowd. Vogue and Women’s Wear Daily are Seventh Avenue staples, but Trend covers more than fashion…it follows whatever is on the cutting edge for a wide range of…well…trends.”

I thanked Rena, then turned back to Esther. “For someone who doesn’t care about fashion, you certainly seem to know your fashionistas.”

“New York One’s running their annual Fall Fashion Week Is Here Again! story,” Esther replied with a shrug. “They interviewed her in the piece and ran it every hour over the weekend. It was hard not to recognize her when she walked in tonight.”

My disturbed state must have been more than a little obvious because Lottie’s other business partner, Tad Benedict, sidled up to me. “So how are you holding up, Clare?” he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

“Fine. I just desperately need an espresso,” I said.

“Coming up,” said Moira, overhearing.

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” said Tad. “The drinks are delicious—and so are the pastries. Lottie’s very pleased. She said she only wished she could have gotten another of those little white diamonds before they all disappeared!” He smiled and patted his chubby stomach. “What were those anyway?”

I smiled. “Ricciarelli. They’ve been a popular celebration cookie for a long time—a really long time, actually. Documents from the Renaissance describe the cookie as being served in Italy and France during lavish, important banquets—”

Tad’s eyebrows rose and I realized I was lapsing into “too much information” again. But for years, while I was raising my daughter in New Jersey, I’d written a cooking column for a local paper, and ever since obscure details about food and drink had looped themselves into my everyday conversations. So sue me.

“Well, everything’s just delicious,” Tad replied.

I was grateful for the positive word. Tad was a good guy. A thirty-something, self-employed investment banker who lived in the neighborhood, his receding hairline and paunchy physique presented a stark contrast to the chiseled male models packed into the coffeehouse, but the leprechaun-like sparkle in his eyes, along with his gregarious nature, made him instantly likeable.

At his side, Rena Garcia—clad in a Fen caramel silk blouse with cream collar and cuffs and a long, brown leather skirt—smiled and sipped a latte. A pretty, vivacious Latina with a savvy head for marketing and publicity, she’d become Lottie’s other business partner after losing her job at Satay and Satay, an advertising and marketing firm just a few blocks away.

“So, you must be excited with what Matt’s up to,” said Tad, gesturing to the private conversation I’d interrupted by the fireplace.

“Excuse me?” I could think of a lot of words to describe what I felt about Matt’s behavior and “excited” was not one of them.

“Matt’s just being smart,” he said with a reassuring look.

“Smart?”

“Chatting up his kiosk idea with some key players.”

Before I could ask Tad what the hell he was talking about a familiar voice interrupted.

“Pardon me, but can I get a latte with soy milk?”

It was Lloyd Newhaven, the stylist, sans his two beautiful companions. He was suddenly hovering near Moira, who was lining up more tall glass mugs for Tucker.

“Of course,” said Moira. “But we’ve really backed up so it will take a few minutes.”

“I’ll wait,” he said with a sigh.

Soy milk was a fairly common request, and the Blend had