But as for earning Izzy’s forgiveness, attempt one is nice and simple—coffee. I have no delusions that Izzy’s forgiveness can be won with one cup of joe, but it feels like a good foot in the door. A way to prove I’m serious about being there for her.
“I’ll have a…vanilla latte?” I say, and the barista at Wild Brews raises her eyebrow when it comes out as a question.
“Are you sure?” she asks, and I’m surprised by the lack of fangirling. It’s sort of nice, though it’s strange someone in her twenties from Wild Bluffs wouldn’t know who I am. Does she know who I am?
Nash snickers behind me, and I regret once again letting Carter assign a security team to me while I’m here.
I am, in fact,notsure. I sent Kelsey a text to ask what kind of coffee Izzy likes, and her response was “you’re an idiot.” It was not as helpful as I was hoping, though undeniably accurate.
Fifteen years ago, Izzy loved sweet things, so vanilla latte feels like a safe bet. Though, a lot has changed in fifteen years…
“Um, maybe add on a”—I scan the menu in front of me—“black coffee, a chai tea, and an iced coffee with cream.”
Nash snickers again.
“Also a muffin, a croissant, and a bagel.”
The barista’s eyes are wide as she types it all in.
“Anything else, Mr. Steele?” she asks.
I guess that answers my question. It’s weird that she…actually, now that I think of it, it’s strange that no one has acknowledged my existence in town—in the restaurant the other night or in the coffee shop this morning.
It’s nice, in a way. Like I’m normal.
I shake my head in answer as I pull my wallet out of my back pocket to access my stalker-proof form of payment—cash. “No. I think that should do it.”
Five minutes later, the barista hands me a bag full of breakfast treats and a drink carrier with what, in my mind, are the four most diverse yet popular drink options.
“Anything else you need?” she asks.
“Just a lot of luck that one of these is Izzy’s favorite drink,” I mumble, mostly to myself.
She lets out a snort. “You should be fine. She tends to drink iced vanilla lattes in the summer, but the hot one will likely do…if she’ll let you close enough to give it to her,” she adds with a smirk.
Right. Small towns—everyone knows everything. For better or worse.
“Ah, well, thanks,” I say, turning to leave the coffee shop.
As we step out onto the sidewalk, I offer the other drinks to Nash. “Want one?”
Nash shakes his head, his eyes dancing with amusement. “No way am I letting the outcome of your quest rest on the words of a barista. Show up with all of them. Make it seem like you’re trying.”
“Iamtrying,” I say as I climb into the passenger seat of the SUV. Nash insisted on driving today, and I let him. Mostly because he was so mad at me for not letting him do his job, but also because it’s nice to have company. “To Izzy’s house, James,” I say in my best haughty, Twelfth Duke of York voice.
Nash chuckles before easily navigating to Izzy’s house. I tell myself his knowledge of where she lives is because he followed me there yesterday after I convinced Carter to give me her address, not because he’s been here before. Which would be fine. Maybethey’refriends.
I hop out of the car, ignoring Nash’s wishes for good luck. I’m pretty sure he finds this whole situation a lot funnier than I do. I would probably find it amusing if I weren’t the one who was sucker punched with the realization that I was a complete and utter asshole of a friend, possibly of a person.
It’s been a pretty shitty thirty-six hours full of a lot of self-loathing. There is a not-zero percent chance I will develop an ulcer from the way my stomach has been churning with shame.
Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I knock.
As I wait at Izzy’s door, hands full of caffeinated beverages and treats, my nerves are slowly fraying. Is she not home? Is she in there and just doesn’t want to deal with me? Is she being held hostage by a crazed fan who wants to create a magic love potion out of her hair?
No. Izzy is normal—not inundated by stalkers.
I knock again.
