“Nice.” He tucks his phone under the register. “Your coffee will be ready in a minute. The pickup counter is over there.”
I follow where he’s pointing. “Thanks. Text me so I can add your number to my contacts. Oh, and no sugar in my coffee. Please. And just a little milk.”
“Got it.”
“Thanks.” I finally move to wait for my coffee, ignoring the stink eyes directed at me from the other customers. Because I care—not at all. When my order is ready, I wave goodbye to Matthew, with wet, mountain heat smacking me when I step outside. I gulp down a healthy sip of my coffee, never happier to be right where I am than at this moment. Sure, I have a ton of work waiting for me, but I welcome the challenge. And I can’t wait to help Zefra-D with the relaunch. It’s going to change the world, and I’ll be a part of the evolution. With my artwork front and center. I don’t even have words for the pride I feel, knowing my design will be the face of the company.
Life couldn’t be better.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
Fuck me sideways.
“Go away, Jester.”
I take another sip of my drink, if for no other reason than to keep myself from tossing it at his stupid yellow Jeep.
He lowers the radio. “Paul Revere” by the Beastie Boys always was one of his favorite songs. I hide my cringe when he parks and pours his tall, muscular frame out of the driver’s seat. Every muscle in my body tenses for the wrong reasons when he falls into step beside me. As if he has all the right in the world to intrude upon my space. “You’re looking mighty fine today.”
I snort out a laugh. “And here you look like shit.”
Liar.
As always, he’s perfectly gorgeous.
He also ignores my insult. Jester’s gaze is a physical touch that sets me on fire. “How is it possible that you’re still the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen?”
The compliment does terrible things to my equilibrium. Somehow, I maintain my composure rather than dissolve into a puddle of goo on the sidewalk.
As much as I hate to admit it, he has an effortless charm. Damn him straight to the devil.
“Don’t you have someone else to annoy?”
He rakes a hand through his already messy hair. I hate how my stomach flip-flops at his crooked grin. “Nah, Faith, you’re the only person I want to annoy.”
“Awesome for me,” I mutter, but I can’t tame the hoard of butterflies beating their wings in my belly.
Why can’t I get this worked up over someone like, say, Matthew, with his adorable dimple? Instead, I get flustered over this asshole who played fast and loose with my heart and left me devastated for seven long and torturous years. Oh, wait, I know why. Because Matthew doesn’t look like the sort of man who will pin me against a door and fuck me until my cervix is traumatized.
God, I hate him.
I hate him because Ican’thate him.
Listen to me. I’m making no sense.
Wait, who am I talking to?
“I’m free for the rest of the afternoon if you still need help unpacking.”
“I already told you I don’t need your help.” The words trip over themselves in my haste to push them out. Jester is my one weakness. If I let him in my house again, I might as well invite him back into my heart—and that willneverhappen.
He practically sends me flying when he nudges me with his shoulder. He grabs me to keep me from toppling over, coffee and all. “Christ, woman, when did you become so delicate?”
I choke back a laugh. Only someone from Mayhem would consider me delicate. When I was in Brighton, I was more like a bull in a china shop. All left feet and zero grace. “I may be delicate, but I dare you to bully me.”
He pulls an exaggerated, horrified face and slaps a hand over his heart. “Me, bully the indomitable Faith Decker? I may be crazy, but I’m not suicidal.”
“No?” I roll my eyes. “Then why are you bothering me?”
