Dead to the Last Drop by Cleo Coyle Page A

of low-end customers by serving low-end crap.”
    He finally lowered his phone, to flash me a grim little grin.
    “But I was hired by your boss to execute my cuisine. Sophisticated dishes for discerning tastes. Food for the kind of people who don’t particularly care to fraternize with college kids and aging jazz junkies.”
    The volley of insults was too much to waste time swinging at, so I simply asked: “And how do you plan to pack the place with these rarefied big spenders?”
    Tad shifted his gaze back to the smartphone screen.
    “They’ll come,” he declared. “They’ll come because I figured out how to get buzz even if you can’t. In eleven months I’ll be collecting my performance bonus from Madame DuBois, and you’ll be running back to Manhattan with your tail between your legs, to your old job at the Village Blend—if they’ll have you.”
    So angry I could steam milk, I was about to let loose on the deluded peacock when Tito came through the door, reporting for his barista shift.
    Despite his youth, Tito had years of experience, having worked since childhood in his family’s restaurant near Milan. Blond and blue-eyed, his Northern Italian good looks made him a favorite with the college coeds, but it was his work ethic that made him one with me. He was also the most experienced staff member I had here in DC, and I was glad to see him on this busy morning.
    “Boss! You got a visitor,” he called, Italian accent thick. “It’s that piano girl. She’s outside beeping her horn like crazy and yelling for you.”
    “Abby’s alone?”
    “ Solo? Sure. Why not?”
    I raced outside, and into a blast of chilly air that set me shivering.
    There she was. The President’s daughter, sitting behind the wheel of a red Ford Fusion, madly honking the horn. She looked more goth than usual this morning with her black-and-purple-striped tee over blackleggings. Her window was rolled down and when she saw me she tossed back her beautiful dark curtain of hair and yelled—
    “Get in, Ms. Cosi! Hurry!”
    I looked down at my apron, while my hand reached for my fast-deconstructing ponytail. “Give me a minute to grab my purse and coat—”
    “No!” Abby cried, her tone desperate. “There’s no time!”
    At that moment a pair of identical black SUVs rolled onto Wisconsin Avenue. It wasn’t hard to guess who was behind the wheel.
    “Please,” she begged, “before Agent Cage catches up!”
    I ran to the door and climbed into the seat. Before I’d even settled in, Abby released the brake and hit the gas. I fumbled with the shoulder strap as we barreled down Wisconsin. Traffic was light, but Abby still did too much zigging and zagging around the few vehicles that were too slow for her mission.
    “Why the hurry?”
    Hunched over the wheel, she refused to meet my gaze. “I wanted to get to you before they did.”
    “They? Who’s they ?”
    “The Secret Service.”
    “Abby, where are we going?”
    “My mother wants to meet you. We’re going to brunch at the White House.”

T wenty-eight
    “I can’t go to the White House looking like this! I don’t have my purse. I don’t have makeup. I don’t even have lipstick!”
    “You look fine,” Abby assured me as she swung the car onto M Street—without applying the brakes. The tires squealed as we made the turn, then she punched the gas, and I was pressed into my seat by the sudden acceleration.
    But our speed was only one on a list of my concerns.
    Topping it was my coffeehouse, which I’d unwittingly abandoned. At least Tito had arrived to man the espresso machine. I knew he was capable of handling the staff and customers until I returned. That boy was assistant manager material if ever I’d seen it, so I considered this a test. If he can handle my freakish absence with reasonable aplomb, I swear I’ll promote him.
    Next on my list of concerns—my appearance.
    I glanced down at my black skirt, black tights, and thin, black V-neck sweater—all covered