Not My Barista

By Rachelle Ayala

The cute barista is a wannabe writer, and Gina Griffin doesn't date wannabe writers. She's a bestselling women's fiction author and doesn't need to take a clueless beginner under her wing, especially a handsome one who's so awkward with words that she finds endearing.

But Henry Archer is no ordinary barista. He's a tech billionaire in disguise and the mastermind behind an AI chatbot designed to write like humans. Henry is captivated by Gina's talent and determined to learn from her. What Gina doesn't know is that he's also using her word choices to fine-tune the very technology that she fears might render her craft obsolete.

As they grow closer, Henry finds himself in a moral quandary, torn between his growing feelings for Gina and the innovative technology that could change the writing industry forever. Gina, in turn, is drawn to the charming barista with a passion for words, warning him against using AI and teaching him to write from the heart.

Love is the last thing either one of them expects. As Gina grows curious about Henry's identity and Henry frets over his newest breakthrough, a hidden enemy forces his hand. Will the exploding truth destroy Henry and Gina's budding romance or inspire the greatest love story ever written?

~~~

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rachelle Ayala
• Release date: Mar 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224674008

Rachelle Ayala

Rachelle Ayala is the author of dramatic romantic suspense and humor-laden, sexy contemporary romances. Her heroines are feisty, her heroes hot. Needless to say, she's very happy with her job.Rachelle is an active member of online critique group, Critique Circle, and a volunteer for the World Literary Cafe. She is a very happy woman and lives in California with her husband. She has three children and has taught violin and made mountain dulcimers.Visit her at: http://www.rachelleayala.net and download free books at http://rachelleayala.net/free-books

Book preview

Not My Barista

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Watch for more at Rachelle Ayala’s site.

Not My Barista

A SECRET TECH BILLIONAIRE ROMANTIC COMEDY

NOT MINE

BOOK THREE

RACHELLE AYALA

Description

The cute barista is a wannabe writer, and Gina Griffin doesn’t date wannabe writers. She’s a bestselling women’s fiction author and doesn’t need to take a clueless beginner under her wing, especially a handsome one who’s so awkward with words that she finds endearing.

But Henry Archer is no ordinary barista. He’s a tech billionaire in disguise and the mastermind behind an AI chatbot designed to write like humans. Henry is captivated by Gina’s talent and determined to learn from her. What Gina doesn’t know is that he’s also using her word choices to fine-tune the very technology that she fears might render her craft obsolete.

As they grow closer, Henry finds himself in a moral quandary, torn between his growing feelings for Gina and the innovative technology that could change the writing industry forever. Gina, in turn, is drawn to the charming barista with a passion for words, warning him against using AI and teaching him to write from the heart.

Love is the last thing either one of them expects. As Gina grows curious about Henry’s identity and Henry frets over his newest breakthrough, a hidden enemy forces his hand. Will the exploding truth destroy Henry and Gina’s budding romance or inspire the greatest love story ever written?

Not Mine, a closed-door romantic comedy series where love sneaks in between the laughs.

Not My Dog Walker, When April Fu finds a dog in her apartment the day before April Fool’s, she’s not laughing. Audiobook link.

Not My Boss, Can office pranks, HR violations, and a doggy fashion show get Dixie the divorce she thinks she wants?

Not My Barista, Will an AI billionaire disguised as a barista steal the words of love from Gina’s heart?

Not My Bridegroom, When internet influencer Anita Leyva accepts an AI-matched proposal, she discovers true love doesn’t come with bytes and bots.

Copyright © 2023 by Rachelle Ayala

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.

Contact Rachelle at:

https://www.rachelleayala.net/contact-me

For Rachelle’s free books:

http://rachelleayala.net/free-books

Contents

Welcome

1. Gina

2. Henry

3. Gina

4. Henry

5. Gina

6. Henry

7. Gina

8. Gina

9. Henry

10. Gina

11. Gina

12. Henry

13. Gina

14. Henry

15. Gina

16. Henry

17. Gina

18. Henry

19. Gina

20. Henry

21. Gina

22. Gina

23. Henry

24. Gina

25. Gina

26. Henry

27. Gina

28. Henry

29. Gina

30. Gina

31. Henry

32. Gina

Acknowledgments

Excerpt: Not My Bridegroom

Excerpt: Where Love Unfolds

Reading List with Heat Levels

Rachelle Ayala Books in Other Languages

About the Author

Welcome

I invite you to explore my world romances, from dangerous suspense to sweet family drama, featuring hot, steamy flirts, brainy, strong heroines, and hunky men with big, gigantic hearts and melty, warm hugs.

For book descriptions, go to the Reading List with Heat Levels section or check out my Reader’s Guide at:

http://rachelleayala.net/books/

Don’t forget to download my Free Books:

Find them at my website: https://rachelleayala.net/free-books

For updates and two more free books, sign up for my newsletter at:

https://www.rachelleayala.net/newsletter

To chat and read new works in progress, join my Reader’s Club at:

http://www.facebook.com/groups/ClubRachelleAyala/

Thanks for coming into my story world and letting me take you on an unforgettable excursion. Turn the page to begin.

Bon voyage!

ONE

Gina

I hate arriving early, but then I also hate arriving late.

I’m standing at the traffic light on Irving Street in a mixed San Francisco residential business district, looking for a coffee shop that’s supposed to be an experience in caffeine. I hope Anita gets there before me. I don’t enjoy going to new places without knowing anyone, and as I make my way down the busy sidewalk, I keep my eyes to myself. I don’t know why I let my parents talk me into, or rather strongly encourage me to move out on my own.

Sure, I’m closing in on thirty, but it’s always been the three of us at our little bookstore in Pismo Beach—one of the few remaining independent bookstores, I might add, and I had hoped to stay there my entire life reading and writing books.

But I had to hit it big. After dozens of mid-list books, one of my women’s fiction romances, Shadowed Serenade, hit the bestselling lists, and my name, Gina Griffin, was suddenly recognizable to readers across the country. I experienced a surge in book sales, and the spotlight was suddenly on me as a rising star in the publishing world. And with the money rolling in from royalties and speaking engagements, Mom and Dad gave me a push out of the nest.

So here I am, a recent post-pandemic transplant to San Francisco, an eclectic mix of high-tech and homelessness, although this neighborhood I’m walking through is quite clean. It’s a half mile to Ocean Beach, and that reminds me of home, somewhat. The seagulls flock and whirl overhead, and the fog embraces me on this cool and slightly damp October morning.

I spot the storefront, Brewed Awakenings, on the corner next to a boarded-up row house. It sports a new paint job with a blend of modern and retro. Large glass windows frame the bustling activity inside, and patrons sit at rustic wooden tables outfitted with power stations. The potted plants add to the shop’s vibrant yet cozy atmosphere. The alluring aroma of roasted beans calls to me, but I hover at the doorway, feeling nervous about entering this new place alone.

A couple of people exit the shop, so I slide my way in. I glance around, taking in the mix of vintage armchairs and couches paired with repurposed wood tables.

Gina, over here. Anita waves at me from across the cozy seating area. Relief washes over me at seeing my friend already settled in. She gestures to the empty chair next to her and sets down the large tote bag that seems permanently glued to her side. Her bright pink dress matches the fuchsia streaks in her dark hair, and she gives me an enthusiastic hug.

By the way, how’s the new book going? she asks the question I dread so much. Ever since I became famous with that fluke bestseller, I’ve been paralyzed with worry that I can’t recreate that magic. My readers expect more historical romance set during thrilling eras, but my mind draws a blank whenever I try to outline a new story.

I’m still looking for the perfect segue from my last book, is the answer I dredge up.

Anita always inspires me, being a freelance writer who can write about anything. Me? I’m stuck in my ways, and my muse is very specific about what I write. It has to be historical, involve women, and have a romantic subplot—dreamy man preferred.

She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. Don’t stress; just let the creative juices flow. Your next big hit is in there somewhere.

How about you? I’m curious how she gets so many ideas. How are your projects coming along?

Ai yi yi, I have too many ideas. She flaps her hands, jangling her many bracelets. So many things I want to write about, but I have to do the ones that pay off. Let’s go get our brew. Anita points at the row of baristas shaking cappuccino pucks and doing pour-overs.

You won’t believe the eye candy behind the counter today, she gushes, her disco-ball earrings swinging wildly. He’s got a smile that can sell sand to the beach.

Of course, I look, even though I didn’t come for eye candy. I need to get my muse unstuck, and anything can be an inspiration.

Several baristas are busy at work, but the man who catches my attention does indeed have a disarming smile and sports a tousled dark hairdo that screams, I woke up like this. Not to mention those biceps.

Is he the reason you’re always here?

Gets my juices flowing and the words popping. Anita nudges me playfully. Don’t worry. My heart belongs to Eduardo. But you’re single, so I took the liberty of telling Mr. Delicious about you.

You didn’t, I hiss, wondering what she said as we make our way to the line.

Hey, when you have a famous friend, you brag a little. She flashes a megawatt smile as the hunk turns his gaze on us.

We’re next! My nerves sizzle from being under observation by the barista who is asking Anita what she’d like.

Earth to Gina, Anita says. What would you like?

Other than eye candy, mouth candy, and touch-and-feel candy?

Uh. I only ever order caramel macchiato, but somehow, my tongue is tied. Fortunately, I have a Post-It stuck in my ever-present notebook with caramel macchiato scribbled on it. Don’t ask. It’s a writer’s habit to stick Post-It notes on walls as I move plot points around.

She’s having her usual, Anita said. Gina Griffin is the famous author I told you about. A real storytelling queen. Gina, meet Henry.

Henry turns that devastating smile my way, and an unexpected flutter takes flight in my stomach. The brilliant writer herself. I’m honored. What can I get you?

I hand him the Post-It, and he looks at it, winking. Ah, excellent taste. A woman as lovely and talented as yourself will appreciate the subtle notes of caramel paired with the bold espresso.

Wow. What a flirt. Half of me bets he says this to all the customers, but the small-town girl in me wishes this gorgeous specimen has indeed singled me out. I’m aware of Anita’s amused expression, so I tone down my pulse, which is jittering underneath my calm exterior.

While Anita is flash and style, I prefer jeans, a worn chambray shirt, and a few accessories. A watch and a ring my parents gave me, and a headband to keep my messy hair from my face. Bestselling status notwithstanding, this man’s out of my league.

The espresso machine hisses as he works, steaming the milk to a fluffy cloud. He perfects the pour, then marks the frothed milk with espresso, keeping those delicious dark-brown eyes on me. How does he do it without missing the cup?

He hands me a steaming cup with another wink. One caramel macchiato.

I take a sip, savoring the sweet warmth—only to pause—the distinct flavor of vanilla floods my tongue instead of caramel.

This is a vanilla latte, I say, meeting his amused gaze.

Is it? Henry replies with a half-cocked grin. Or is it a new drink invented just for you? I call it … the Vanilla Macchiato.

I have to bite my lip to hold back a laugh. Very clever, but this queen prefers her caramel kingdom.

Foiled again by her Majesty. Please accept my humble apology.

As he bows dramatically, his arm bumps into a container of cinnamon, spilling it across the counter and onto my sleeve. I brush away the spice, hyper-aware of his sudden proximity.

Oh no, I’m so sorry, Henry says, gingerly grasping my wrist to wipe the cinnamon away. His fingers are gentle but send an unmistakable tingle up my arm.

He meets my gaze, his brown eyes flecked with gold, and neither of us pulls away for a long moment.

Let me get that drink right this time. Henry steps back with a slight flush on his bearded cheeks. Did I tell you I’m an aspiring author?

TWO

Henry

I might look confident standing behind the counter, wearing my barista apron and grinning like a cocky jackass, but before last week, the only coffee I ever made came from a K-cup.

I’m Henry Archer, the CEO of ChatCrafters, an AI company building language models to take over knowledge workers. A buddy of mine got me the job here at Brewed Awakenings, which is known for being a hangout for writers. Many of them are regulars, like Anita Leyva, who writes for journals and blogs—mostly business writing and articles—but I’m looking for someone who can express herself with genuine human emotions and excel at storytelling with twists.

Forgive me for leaving out the caramel sauce when Anita introduced me to this storytelling queen. She caught my eye immediately with her natural beauty and bookish demeanor, reminding me of Emily Dickinson escaping her writing garret for the very first time.

Yet, the poetess holds me enthralled. Her reddish-brown hair is slightly darker than chestnut, and her greenish-brown eyes carry more than enough mystery to keep me hooked.

But I have to pose as a barista, so I fix the drink easily—a drizzle of caramel sauce in a heart shape—and bring it to her table.

She blushes beautifully as I apologize again while her friend nudges her.

Gina, tell our dashing new barista about your infamous villain who received love letters.

I raise my eyebrows to indicate interest. Villain fan mail, eh? Do tell.

She shrugs with a self-deprecating air. I wrote him a little too charming. Fans wanted him to run off with the heroine.

Fascinating. I invite myself to their table and flash Gina my disarming smile. A complex villain is the mark of superb storytelling. When you craft such realistic characters, readers become invested in them, even the antagonists.

Her coffee cup stops in midair as she glares at me like I’m a fly in her soup. Are you speaking from experience, Mr. Aspiring Author?

I resist the urge to tug at my collar since she’s hardly disarmed by my charms. I find morally questionable characters more interesting than dashing heroes with honorable motives.

I hear a snicker at the next table, where my engineer, Daniel Park, is staring at his laptop and eavesdropping.

An evaluation of your personal tendencies? She arches an eyebrow. What genre do you write in?

Literary fiction, I bullshit her, knowing that it always gets a reaction.

Literary fiction, hm? And what draws you to that genre? Her lips quirk with both interest and disdain.

I rub my bearded chin to appear scholarly. I’m eminently interested in the human condition and, of course, life itself.

It’s not exactly a lie since training a big-ass AI model to interact as a human means lots of input on what it takes to be human or the ability to fake it with finely tuned words.

It’s quite a challenge to get published, she observes.

Tell me about it. It’s like tackling a three-headed monster. I’ve got to nail what makes humans tick, wrap my mind around complex prose, and learn the art of killer storytelling.

Do you do a lot of reading?

I frown and shake my head. No time. And you?

Read everything I could get my hands on. My parents own a bookstore, so you can imagine I’m like a sugarholic in a candy shop. I enjoy reading literary fiction even though I write women’s fiction, which can be considered literary.

You clearly have a gift for capturing that human element, I reply with a dollop of flattery. I’d love to learn more about how you come up with your rich and eloquent prose.

Have you read any of my books? she asks with an expectant air.

Gulp. Does she think I have time to read? Training chatbots to read books takes all my time.

I’d love to, but … I sweep my hand at the busy coffee shop. I’d better get back to work. Do you have a card or a phone number? Because I’d love to chat further.

I’m aware of my engineer tapping away on his laptop, and I wonder if he recorded my conversation with Gina so he can tease me about it. He sits at coffee shops to collect conversations to improve our language models.

Gina blushes as she hands me the business card of Books by the Beach, a bookstore in Pismo Beach. My number’s written on the back.

I tuck the precious card in the pocket of my apron and hold her gaze. I hope we can continue this another time …

She nods, blinking shyly, and for a moment, I consider whether what I’m doing is right. But then, I’m truly interested in her as a woman, and I’m in need of her varied vocabulary, metaphorical language, and descriptive passages to enhance my AI chatbot’s capabilities.

It’s one of those win-win situations. I would have chatted her up anyway, even if I wasn’t the secret CEO of ChatCrafters, an artificial intelligence startup in a race to write prose indistinguishable from the human-written text. With Gina’s help, I will be able to push a button and have AI write me a bestselling work of literary merit.

THREE

Gina

I try not to stare at Henry’s delectable backside as he walks back behind the counter.

Wow.

Did that man just collect my phone number? I ask, more rhetorically than truly needing an answer.

Told you he’s hot, Anita says. And look at you. He wants a private writing session with you.

But I don’t date writers, I hasten to remind myself of my resolution. Especially male writers.

Oh? You’d date little old me? Should I be dumping Eduardo? she asks in a silly little teasing voice.

You don’t pick my brain for plots and writing advice. I roll my eyes at the thought of men buying me drinks at writers’ conferences. Whenever I’ve gotten involved with male writers, it turns into a one-sided mentoring session. They want me to review their work, connect them to agents and publishers, and give them insider industry tips. It’s exhausting.

Ah, got it. They see you as a resource to exploit rather than an actual romantic partner.

Exactly. I know Henry seems different, but … There was an undeniable spark between us earlier, but I’ve been burned before.

You deserve someone who sees your beautiful soul, not just your success. And if Henry can’t appreciate all of who you are, then he’s not worth your time.

Yeah, we’ll see. I take a sip of the delectable Caramel Macchiato he fixed up for me. Am I mistaken, or did he add a dash of cayenne?

Let me taste, Anita offers. She smacks her lips and wiggles her shoulder. Oh la, la. It’s a coded message. He’s telling you he’s hot stuff.

Does his boss know he’s mucking around with the recipe? I wonder if he does this to all the women. Change up their orders and flirt with them. He seems to be having too much fun.

Hey, he’s the reason this place is jam-packed with X chromosomes. Anita scans the crowded shop, which indeed has a ratio of ten to one women to men. Hey, if Henry’s too colorful for you, don’t look now, but there’s a tech bro sitting next to us. He’s been peeking at you from underneath those sexy bangs of his.

I don’t want to look, but of course, I do. It’s a bad habit of mine. As soon as someone tells me not to do something, I do it.

He is cute in a semi-geeky way, and maybe he’s more my type. At the moment, he has his earpieces in and is staring intently into his laptop, although I detect slightly flushed cheeks. Has he been eavesdropping?

I’m here not to hang out with writers other than you. I straighten my shoulders and finally open my MacBook. Sitting all alone in my three-thousand-a-month garret overlooking a brick wall has me blocked.

Rents are insane here. Anita trails off with a sympathetic look.

I nod, staring at my still-blank Word document where the cursor pulses mockingly. I can’t afford these prices if I don’t get this next book done. Can’t rest on my laurels. That’s for sure.

Don’t stress, Anita says. Your creative genius will come through. Plus, this coffee shop is perfect for inspiration.

Right. If chattering women and giggling girls crowding around one hot barista is inspiring. No one is clacking away on their laptop other than the guy sitting next to me, but many have notebooks out and laptops playing their screensavers.

Still, the atmosphere simmers with creative energy, and my one-room apartment is too empty. I check my watch. You’re right. Time to start working.

I flex my fingers and place them on my keyboard. Except what do I do now? Should I write the next book about the villain who received love letters? My stories are women-centered, inspiring, and full of emotion. I don’t quite understand why readers latched on to the brooding stowaway Simon Blackheart—a murderer.

With his dark past and dangerous demeanor, Simon was written to create conflict as the rival for the heroine’s affections. But his smoldering looks and mysterious backstory struck a chord with readers. They loved his sarcastic one-liners and rebellious nature. And the snippets revealed about his traumatic upbringing made him sympathetic, even as he engaged in reckless behavior.

I had to work to make the proper hero end up with the heroine, and I kept fighting the alternate ending. It was like an endless Phantom of the Opera rematch where I had to come up with ways for my hero, Lord Adrian Whitmore, to claim the love of the orphan heroine, Clara, while trying to save her from the sinking ship.

When the ship took on water, Clara, who was in steerage as a governess for a wealthy family, found herself locked behind the gates. It was the stowaway, Simon, who was escaping from murder charges, who knocked out a guard and stole his keys to free Clara and others from certain death. He dragged Clara through the crushing crowds up to the deck for Whitmore to place her in a lifeboat. When the ship broke to pieces, Simon disappeared beneath the froth—lost to the graveyard of the Atlantic.

My publisher is sure that without Simon, my book would not have hit the bestseller’s list, so here I am, stuck and wondering how I can think of a miraculous way for Simon to wash up on a beach.

Beside me, Anita is tapping away on her laptop with a gleaming smile. Every so often, she chuckles as if at some private joke.

Aren’t you supposed to be working instead of chatting? I nudge her and peer at her screen, where she’s obviously deep