French Pressed by Cleo Coyle Page A

dinner. She’s just protesting now because all she got was cat food.”
    “Excuse me? She is a cat , isn’t she?”
    I shook my head. “You just don’t understand…”
    White whiskers and two coffee bean–colored paws peeked out from under the kitchen table. Then Java’s whole furry form slinked out, and she began to rub herself against Mike’s leg. He reached down to scratch her head.
    “Watch out,” I warned. “She’ll think you’re a soft touch.”
    “I am.” Mike met my eyes. “Depending on the feline.”
    He gently picked up Java and set her on his lap. Parts of my body melted as Mike’s hand steadily stroked her: long, sweet, gentle strokes. I sighed. Lucky cat.
    “Okay, I’ll bite,” Mike said. “If she doesn’t want cat food, what does she want?”
    “Human food, of course.” I folded my arms. “She probably smells the butter-browned lobster on my breath from dinner. Sorry, Java honey, I ate every bite. No leftovers.”
    MRRROOOOOW!
    Mike laughed. “I can see that went over well.”
    “Here…” I went to the cupboard, found a can of Pounce kitty treats. “Give her a few of these. They’re lobster flavor . Not the real thing, but then she doesn’t have the bank account for a Solange entrée. Actually, neither do I. Madame footed the bill tonight. Anyway, they should tame Java’s hungri-tude for awhile.”
    “Hungri-tude?” He popped the can. Java’s ears instantly perked up.
    “It’s what you get when hunger and attitude collide in a self-actualized female tabby.”
    Java jumped down, and Mike threw her a few of the triangular-shaped treats. My companionable but languorous feline began scampering across the floor like an excited kitten, catching and eating each tiny triangle as if it were a fat mouse.
    I might have accused the cat of having no shame, but then I probably would have joined her on the floor if Mike had started throwing out some of those champagne-poached oysters I’d devoured earlier in the evening.
    Since Pounce treats were all he was tossing, however, I sat my “distracting ass” down across the table and lifted my own coffee mug. The swallow I took was long and satisfying. My Morning Sunshine was an even cleaner and brighter experience than our regular Breakfast Blend, thanks to my ex-husband.
    Matteo had found us an exquisite crop of Yirgacheffe during a trip to Ethiopia, so I decided to make good use of it by creating the special blend. I savored the hints of lemon and honey blossom that the Yirgacheffe brought to the party. They also provided an amazingly juicy finish—the kind of salivation you’d get after a luscious bite of citrus fruit.
    It was the perfect cup for my morning customers, because I’d stopped the roasting process at medium, so a healthy mug of it provided a higher caffeine content than a demitasse of espresso.
    In my professional opinion, my Morning Sunshine was a superb, eye-opening coffee to wake up with—whatever time of day one needed waking. And I could certainly see, from Mike’s weary demeanor, he needed it tonight.
    “So…what’s your duty?” I asked him again.
    “I’m supervising three undercover teams at three different nightclubs.” Mike tossed Java another treat. This time she rose up on her hind legs and caught the treat with her two front paws.
    Mike pointed. “Look at that. Java does tricks.”
    “She’s just showing off for her new boyfriend.”
    Mike laughed and threw another treat.
    “So tell me what’s happening at the nightclubs. Drug sales? Assaults?”
    “Confidence game,” he told me.
    “A single perpetrator?”
    “At least four, probably six. We’re calling them the May-September gang.”
    “May-September?” I murmured, scratching my head. “They only operate in the summer?”
    Mike laughed. “No. Good guess though. Care to try again?”
    “Sure…”
    This was our usual routine. Long before we’d started dating, Mike would come into the coffeehouse as a customer, belly up to my espresso