His voice dips, softer. “Flour on your cheek.”
I reach up, but he shakes his head. Before I can react, he leans forward, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. A simple touch. Innocent.
It still steals every coherent thought from my brain.
“There,” he murmurs.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Thanks.”
He nods, but he’s still watching me, that familiar protective warmth simmering under his calm exterior—the one that always feels like it’s meant for me and only me.
Before I can gather myself, another customer comes in, the espresso machine hisses, and I feel like the moment is over. Still, the afterglow lingers.
Through it all, Hayes continues sipping his coffee while leaning on the counter like he isn’t planning to move anytime soon.
“Need anything else?” I manage to ask after a few minutes.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes glinting. “Actually, I do.”
My pulse kicks.
“Keep me company for a minute.”
I swallow. “You want… me to keep you company?”
“Mm-hmm.” His smile deepens, slow and intentional. “If I don’t sit down for a beat, I’ll fall asleep standing up. And if I’m gonna crash somewhere, I figure crashing next to you is the safest option.”
Evie mouths,‘Oh my God’,from her post at the espresso machine.
I kick her gently.
Hayes pretends not to notice any of it, but I catch the pleased curve of his mouth.
“Go on. I can handle this,” Evie encourages me.
Hayes moves toward the corner booth—the one he always claims when he actually sits instead of inhaling his coffee on the go. He pauses halfway there and glances back at me.
“Well?” he asks. “You coming?”
Heat sweeps up my neck again. I glance at Evie, who gives me the most unhelpful thumbs-up in the history of bad sibling advice.
“I have tarts to put in the oven,” I whisper.
“And I can cover,” Evie whispers back, shooing me with both hands. “Go. Sit. Breathe. Talk to your firefighter.”
“He’s not my firefighter,” I hiss.
“Uh-huh,” she says, twisting a dial on the espresso machine with a smirk. “Tell that to your face.”
Which is—annoyingly—still warm.
Hayes, patient as ever, waits at the edge of the booth, one hand braced on the table like he’s holding the world steady. Or maybe just holding a place for me.
I give in.
I grab a towel, swipe my hands once more, then drift over to him as casually as someone as I can possibly manage when this feels anything but casual to me.
When I slide into the booth, Hayes sits across from me, stretching his long legs out until one brushes gently against mine. He doesn’t move it. Neither do I.
