Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

---

Miranda decides it’s time to write in a coffee shop. Being at home is too distracting, so she chooses a smallish Starbucks downtown. It’s in Chelsea, close to Pastis, so if she’s in the mood she can meet friends for dinner. It’s also very close to the High Line, so she can nip out for a walk to clear her head when she needs it. (The fact that DVF is a couple of blocks away has also occurred to her.)

The first time she visits the cafe, a shockingly beautiful, annoyingly cheerful barista greets her. “Hi there! What can I get you?” she asks, her smile far too broad considering her lot in life.

Miranda notices her nametag. It says, “Andy.” Miranda doesn’t think the name suits the girl. “A venti, non-fat no-foam latte. Hot. Very hot.”

The girl has the audacity to wink at her. “Coming right up. Your name?”

Miranda is taken aback. She has to give her name to get a cup of coffee? Most of the time her assistant gets her coffee, and she’s never had to give her name before.

The girl’s eyebrows lift at Miranda’s silence. “Um, it’s not really busy, you don’t have to say. We just ask so people can—“

“Daphne,” Miranda replies. She has no idea where she came up with the name, but it flies out of her mouth naturally.

Andy smiles, relieved. “Daphne, a pretty name for a pretty lady. Got it. That’s $3.85.”

Miranda tries not to be flustered by the flirtation; she’s sure this young woman acts this way for all the customers. She probably does so for tips, since there’s a large jar right next to the cash register. Miranda pays with a five dollar bill, and pockets her change. She can’t decide if she’s uncomfortable or attracted. Or both.

Less than a minute later, she picks up her latte and sets up her computer, trying to ignore the woman behind the counter. Once her screen lights up, Miranda starts Word and opens her most recent file. The 12 pages she’s written seem like a drop in a bucket, but she closes her eyes and remembers that she has to start somewhere.

Over an hour later, she glances around and realizes the place is packed. Almost every table is full. There is, in fact, a line of 6 people waiting to be served, and it’s nearly 11am. This must be the only game in town.

Out of the corner of her eye, Miranda watches Andy serve the masses, smiling and kind, but her flirtatiousness is absent. It must be because it’s so busy, Miranda thinks.

She returns to work.

By 1, Miranda has written over three thousand words. This is a record, considering her lack of recent progress. She deserves another coffee, and maybe a snack. But before she can even stand to stretch her legs (which she really should, considering how sore her ass is), a brand new latte is placed on her table, delivered by Andy. Alongside it is a scrambled egg wrap that smells delicious despite the fact that it is surely pre-packaged.

“Someone ordered it and never picked it up,” Andy says, a half grin curving her mouth.

Miranda blinks. She briefly considers trying to pay for the gift, and changes her mind. Instead, she says, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” replies Andy, who still looks fresh as a daisy after hours on her feet.

As she nibbles her lunch (which really is tasty) and sips her beverage, she re-reads what she’s written. It’s the best she’s done in weeks, if not months. Glancing around, she notices the many people ordering all types of coffees and snacks. She observes Andy once more, and to her surprise, she often greets customers by name, knowing their orders by heart. Although this is a chain coffee shop, it feels more like a local hang out. People greet one another and chat; it’s reminiscent of old New York to Miranda, who grew up in Brooklyn decades before it became the cool place to live.

She decides she likes it here. And not just because the barista is pretty. That’s what she tells herself, anyway. She needs no romance in her life. Not when there’s a deadline to meet.

---

Every day, Miranda returns. Andy is there nearly every morning, her bright smile cheering Miranda even when it rains, or when the traffic is terrible, or when Miranda has doubts about her ability to pull off a draft in the next month.

And while it doesn’t happen every day, often Andy drops a treat on Miranda’s table. A fresh latte, a piece of coffee cake, a little iced donut. Miranda rarely eats sweets at home, but she devours each item Andy presents her slowly, deliberately. It’s as if these treats are a substitute for conversation with the woman who has slowly but surely transformed in Miranda’s mind into the heroine of her novel.

In the story, Andy’s name is Daphne. She has long, flowing hair, and she fends off the attentions of the various men who chase after her. She focuses all her attention on solving the cases that land on her desk as a detective in San Francisco. Miranda has long specialized in crime fiction, and while she has occasionally taken on a secondary romance plot, it’s rare.

Right now, she’s considering giving Daphne a romance. With an older, attractive neighbor, who happens to be female.

She doubts her publisher will have a problem with it; lesbianism seems to be all the rage in fiction these days. As long as it’s not the main focus of the story, Miranda should be able to get away with it. Glancing up at Andy, who sweeps the floor with a thoroughness that borders on compulsive, Miranda decides to go for it.

---

Three weeks in, Miranda has produced more than two hundred pages, and has fallen madly in love with the heroine of her own creation. She is also infatuated with Andy.

It’s quite ridiculous; she is without doubt half Miranda’s age. She probably has a boyfriend at home. She has rarely had a conversation with Miranda that lasted longer than 30 seconds.

They have chatted about weather. About coffee. About the Yankees, and happily, Andy is not a fan. (They both prefer the Mets.) She learns that Andy is from Ohio one afternoon when she is talking with a co-worker. She is a writer in her off-hours. She pens poetry, and short fiction, and sometimes, longer stories that might one day turn into a novel.

Miranda wouldn’t mind reading what Andy has written. This is unusual for her, as she often turns down pleas from friends or friends of friends to read their “stuff,” as they so often call it. Miranda is not a fan of “stuff.” But she would happily take on the project, if it meant learning more about the woman who seems to have taken up permanent residence in Miranda’s brain.

One afternoon, as Miranda writes about Daphne making a move on Alexandra, the older, wiser neighbor, Andy sits down at Miranda’s table for the first time.

“Hi,” Andy says. “If you want me to scoot, just say the word and I will.”

Miranda immediately saves her work. “Not at all. Hello.”

“You’re a writer,” Andy says.

“I am,” Miranda replies.

“You write crime fiction.”

Again, there’s no use in lying. “Yes.”

Andy grins. “I thought so. You’re much more beautiful in person than you are on those dust jackets. That picture doesn’t do you justice.”

Miranda snorts. The photo is at least five years old. She has no intention of updating it. “Thank you.”

“How’s the work going?”

Miranda gazes at her muse. “Extremely well. This is a very peaceful place to write.”

Andy’s laugh is almost too loud in the quiet room. “I don’t usually call it peaceful. It can get pretty crazy.”

“You handle it well,” Miranda assures her. “I’ve seen you. You’re very good at your job.”

Andy shrugs self-deprecatingly. “It’s not brain surgery.”

Miranda raises an eyebrow. “If the coffee here was unsatisfactory you can bet I wouldn’t be back every day. It might not be brain surgery but it’s at the very least, a science. You seem to have perfected it.”

At this, Andy blushes. Miranda is immediately charmed. “Thanks. I do take pride in my skills. Even though it’s not what I’d like to do forever.”

Although she knows the answer, Miranda asks, “What would you like to do? Are you an actor, like every other barista in the city?”

Andy chuckles. “Not a chance. I, um, well, I write a little.”

“Oh?” Miranda replies.

“Everyone who’s not an actor here is a writer, I guess. But that’s what I’d like to do. Journalism, fiction, heck, anything at this point. But there’s not much in the way of paid work in this climate, so here I am, enjoying the excitement of regular hours and health insurance. It’s not a bad life, actually. I love the location, and we have all sorts of interesting customers. Like yourself, for instance.”

She thinks I’m interesting. “I’d be glad to read something of yours, if you like.”

Andy’s jaw drops. She clearly had no expectation that Miranda would make such an offer. “Oh, god, no, I couldn’t take advantage—“

“It’s not taking advantage if I’ve offered.”

“But—I mean, maybe you think all the little—um, you know, the coffees, or the donuts or whatnot, that they’re bribes or something—“

“Andy,” Miranda says firmly, “It would take far more than a piece of coffee cake and a venti latte to bribe me. Reading something costs me nothing. I haven’t offered you a contract. Just consider it, all right?”

Andy sighs, and relaxes into the chair. “Okay, I suppose. But I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

Miranda wants to know what the right idea is, but a moment later, Andy wishes her a nice afternoon, and departs.

---

Five days later, Miranda is very, very close to finishing her draft when a pile of pages, bound with brass brads, lands on the table. “Don’t say anything, okay? And don’t say if you hate it. Just come in whenever you’re done reading it and let’s pretend this never happened, all right?” Andy stalks off as though she’s in a foul mood. She doesn’t smile at Miranda for the rest of the afternoon, nor does she bring her a free latte. Instead, Miranda orders one for herself. She pays for it in cash with a twenty, and leaves the change in the tip jar when Andy isn’t looking.

That night, she goes home and immediately pounces on the manuscript of a novel that is far and away better than anything Miranda expected. This is not crime fiction, or romance, or saccharine chick-lit. It’s a novel that deconstructs its main character piece by piece; it delves deeply into her dark past and a murky future. It consists of beautiful, sharp prose, interrupted by occasional bouts of violence and loss and grief. It’s not all gray, however, and when Miranda finishes the final page, she actually experiences a few minutes of elation.

Without permission, Miranda makes a copy of the manuscript and messengers it to her editor, who handles elite writers as well as mass market authors like Miranda. Within twelve hours, Miranda receives a phone call.

“Who the fuck is ‘Andy Sachs,’ Miranda? He’s a fucking genius, if you ask me, and if you tell me I’m going to get stuck in a bidding war to sign him I’ll kill you,” Leslie says. She gets straight to the point, as usual.

“You’re interested, then?” Miranda says, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

“I think you know I am. Put me in touch with him or I’ll push up your deadline two weeks.”

“Feel free, I’m nearly done with the first draft.”

There is silence on the other end of the line. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” Miranda replies. “You’ll have something by next Monday. It needs polish, of course, and a good deal of editing, but it’s about three pages from completion.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Miranda. I can’t believe it. I already padded the schedule an extra three months just in case. What the hell happened?”

“I was inspired,” Miranda says, and leaves it at that.

---

Chapter Text

---

Miranda is late to the coffee shop the next day. Andy is making the drinks today rather than working the register. When Andy places Miranda’s latte on the bar, she barely looks up.

“Andy,” Miranda says.

“Hi,” Andy replies, glancing at the line. “Um, sorry, gotta work.”

Miranda pulls a card from her purse. It includes Leslie’s work and cell numbers, with her publication house’s name embossed in gold across the top of the card. “Call this number. Today. As soon as you have a break.”

Andy stares at the card as the sound of the customers, the music, the blender flares up all around them.

“What?” Andy says, looking at Miranda finally.

“I said call that number. That’s all.”

Miranda returns to her regular table, and goes to work.

Later in the afternoon, Andy sits down once more across from Miranda. The lunch rush is over, and the shop is quiet.

“I’m going in tomorrow morning to talk about the book,” Andy says, her face so pale and stunned she looks ill.

“That’s good,” Miranda says.

“I don’t have a suit. I mean, I have nothing to wear. I sold most of my nicer things on craigslist last year, when my boyfriend moved out.”

Ahh, Miranda thinks. “I can help you with that. What time do you finish here?”

By seven, Andy has two new Diane Von Furstenberg dresses. Miranda tries to pay for them, but Andy shakes her off. Instead, Miranda asks the sales girl to give her a deep discount, the remainder of which she leaves in cash on the sly as they depart. Miranda only gets away with her scheme because she knows Diane, and because the sales woman recognizes her name from the best seller list.

Miranda walks Andy to the 14th street subway station, where Andy will catch the A train and transfer to Brooklyn , where she lives very near where Miranda grew up. The air around them is warm and sweet, smelling of spring flowers that are in full bloom. Tonight, the city feels like a wonderful place, filled with magic and romance.

“I can’t believe what you’ve done for me,” Andy tells her as they stand at the steps that will lead her home. “And I have no idea why.”

Miranda tilts her head and gazes at Andy tenderly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, after your meeting.” She can’t very well confess that she’s been fantasizing about her for the past month and has written her into a novel. Not to mention a love affair.

“I should be mad at you, by the way,” Andy says with a sideways grin. “You didn’t even ask me if it was okay to show my book to other people.”

“In this case, I felt it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission,” Miranda says. Considering how certain Andy was that Miranda would hate her work, it saved them both some time. “Am I forgiven?”

Andy nods. Her eyes sparkle in the dusk. Miranda has a terribly strong desire to kiss her. “Will you be at the shop tomorrow?” Andy asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll see you. I changed my shift to start at 2 so I’d have time to meet Leslie.” She takes a breath, and leans in to hug Miranda. “If I haven’t already said it, thank you. For everything.”

“Thank me tomorrow,” Miranda says, keeping the embrace shorter than she’d prefer, but knowing it’s better this way for now. “And if anyone asks, don’t sign anything till you run it by a lawyer.”

“I don’t have a lawyer.”

Miranda rolls her eyes. “I do.”

“Right. Don’t sign anything. Anything else I should remember?”

“Believe in yourself.”

That stops Andy short; her expression freezes for some reason, and she swallows. “Okay. Okay, I will.”

“Good luck,” Miranda tells her, and steps away. Andy sighs again, and heads down the steps with a small wave.

Miranda stands there for a minute or more, until a breeze lifts the hair from her forehead. She turns toward the street and hails a cab.

---

The next day, Miranda’s writing process is excruciatingly slow. She manages to get a few inches closer to her ending, but is happily distracted when Andy trots in and flops down into the chair opposite her.

She’s wearing the dress Miranda liked best yesterday, and her hair is brushed straight and sleek to frame her face. A light dusting of make up gives her a natural, sophisticated appeal.

“Well, hi,” Andy says, putting her elbows on the table and holding her chin in her hand.

“Hello,” Miranda replies, hitting save and moving her laptop to the side of the table.

“So I’ve got some stuff for your lawyer to look at. Which I’ll pay you back for,” Andy is quick to add. “I think I might be able to cut my hours here if this advance thing actually happens.”

Miranda nods, satisfied. “Very good. Will you have to continue to work here at all?”

Andy frowns. “Yeah, if I want to keep my health insurance. But I can be part-time and still be okay. They’re good about that. And fewer hours means more time to finish my book. Which I can’t believe is happening. I seriously can’t believe it. Miranda, I’m going to get an advance to finish a novel, and probably have it published.” She looks astonished. “Yesterday it was a pipe dream, and today it’s happening. Because of you.”

“No, I happened to be in the right place at the right time. You did the work. You have the talent.” If Miranda wasn’t already crazy about this young woman, she might be jealous of her abilities, which are very different from Miranda’s. Miranda has wide appeal; her books are loved by millions, but she often enjoys ignoring what the critics say. Andy will be golden critically, Miranda is sure of it.

“You told me you’d tell me why you were helping me,” Andy says softly. “Remember? So now, go ahead.”

Miranda sits back a little in her chair. How is she supposed to say it without making Andy uncomfortable? Straight out, and fast, like ripping off a band-aid. “You’re the inspiration for my new heroine.”

Andy’s face doesn’t change. “That’s funny, Miranda. Now, tell me the real reason. Please.”

“That’s it. Her name’s Daphne. And she looks like you.”

Andy smiles then, curious. “Daphne, that sounds familiar. Is she a crime-solving barista? Does she kick ass in Starbucks and then brew up some tasty mochas?”

Miranda chuckles. “No. She’s beautiful, and graceful, and brilliant. She has pale skin and dark eyes, chestnut hair that falls like water down her back. She makes everyone around her feel like they’re the most important person in the world, and she always looks people in the eye when she speaks to them. She’s good at her job, but she’s destined for more.” Miranda pauses, watching her words sink in. “And she’s beautiful. Have I already mentioned that?” Andy exhales softly. “Everyone who reads this book is going to fall in love with her.” It’s going too far, but Miranda’s said it now, and she can’t take it back.

“Oh,” Andy says, blinking fast. She’s breathing unsteadily. “Um…” She stands suddenly and takes Miranda by the wrist, dragging her up out of her chair. She’s halfway across the room by the time Miranda points to her computer. “Leave it. Maggie, can you watch her stuff?”

The girl behind the counter nods. “No problem.”

She follows Andy into a storage room where there are boxes of coffee and syrup, cups and plates and other items a Starbucks needs to run properly. Quickly Andy slams the door, pushes Miranda up against it, and kisses her.

It’s no small thing, this kiss; Miranda can barely catch up, tilting her head the wrong direction at first and bumping her nose against Andy’s. But she takes Andy’s head in her hands and moves it until they are fused tightly together, tongues tangling in a dance. Andy moans and Miranda clutches at her shoulders, thankful the wall is behind her. Her knees are actually weak at the feel of Andy’s body, her breasts soft and warm against Miranda’s.

When they finally break for air, Andy’s already generous lips are swollen and cherry red. The look of them sends a jolt right between Miranda’s legs, and she bites back a grunt of desire. They probably shouldn’t be doing this here, but she wants one more taste, just one. She leans in again and it’s as fast and furious as the first, filled with need and desperation. But someone shoves the door, and it opens a couple of inches before their combined weight pushes it shut again.

“Hey,” someone says. “I gotta get in there. Hello?”

Andy steps back, her gaze turning from lusty to alarmed in half a second. “Um, sorry, Pete. I just—well, come in.” She wipes her mouth quickly, and Miranda does the same.

“Hey,” a barista says as enters, not seeing Miranda at first. “Nice dress, Andy. It’s a little fancy for work, though, isn’t it?” Finally he notices Miranda, who tries not to look guilty. “Hey, we’re not supposed to have non-employees back here. It’s policy.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. No problem.” Andy looks at Miranda and scoots around Pete, slinking out the door as Miranda follows. Their shoulders brush, and she hears Andy snicker as they return to the shop. “Whoops,” she says, her tone conspiratorial.

Miranda tries to calm her racing heart, and attempts to ignore the fact that she is now sporting a pair of soaked panties under her linen trousers. It’s embarrassing, really. Almost as embarrassing as being interrupted during a make-out session and chastised by a twenty-two year old college student.

They sit down at Miranda’s table, where everything is exactly where she left it. They’re quiet, but Andy’s blush says it all; it’s pink and travels all the way down her throat. “You, ah, you’re good at that,” Andy tells her.

Miranda can think of nothing but the kiss. “Mm,” she replies, watching Andy’s mouth as it moves. She is transfixed, and is startled when Andy speaks again.

“I’m closing tonight. Won’t be done till eleven.” She looks deflated, as if only just now realizing she can’t slip out for more kisses.

Miranda is torn. Tonight she’d like to pick Andy up, drive her to the townhouse, strip off her coffee-stained uniform and make love to her on the floor of the entryway. But this is a romance, so it deserves more patience than that. Andy deserves more. “Can I take you for a late supper?” she offers instead.

Andy’s eyebrows go up. “At eleven o’clock ?”

“We’ll pretend we’re in Spain . That’s when everyone eats dinner there.”

With a smile, Andy shrugs her shoulders. “If you don’t mind waiting.”

“Oh I mind waiting very much, but I can’t very well steal you away from here without someone noticing.”

Andy leans forward, the dress’s neckline emphasizing her remarkable cleavage. “I mind too. I’d rather—well, let’s talk about it later.” Miranda knows exactly what she was going to say by the seductive look in her eye. But Andy glances at her watch instead of holding Miranda’s gaze. “I should go change. My shift starts in ten minutes.”

Miranda sighs her disappointment. “I understand. I look forward to hearing more about your conversation with Leslie.”

“She got quite a surprise when I walked in. For some reason she was expecting a guy.”

“Yes, but that was her own assumption. I thought it would be fun to see how she reacted.”

“It was okay. She thinks I should go by my given name instead of Andy. What do you think?”

“Your given name?”

“Yeah. It’s Andrea, but everyone calls me Andy.”

Miranda turns the name over in her mind. “Andrea.” She considers it, and says it differently a second time, with emphasis on the second syllable. “Andrea.”

Andy bites her lip as she hears Miranda say it. “I…“ Andy inhales. “I like the way you say that.”

“I like saying it. Andrea,” she repeats, watching Andy’s eyes glaze over. “And you must call me Miranda.”

“Miranda,” Andy says. Her hand reaches out, and Miranda takes it in hers, threading their fingers together. “Miranda.”