Outside my window, Vancouver sleeps.
But I'm wide awake.
And I'm done waiting.
Tomorrow, Jemma becomes mine.
Whether she's ready or not.
2
Jemma
The thing about working at a coffee shop is that you start to notice patterns.
The world’s sweetest old lady comes in at 7:15 every morning for a London Fog with extra vanilla. The university student with the perpetually anxious expression orders a quad shot Americano and downs it like medicine. The businessman who always forgets his reusable cup and apologizes profusely every single time.
And then there's him.
Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. Same time every morning—8:47 AM. Large black coffee, no sugar. Never speaks beyond his order. Never smiles. Tips in hundred-dollar bills like he's unloading Monopoly money.
Scary Hot Regularis what I call him in my head. Sarah from the evening shift calls him "your boyfriend," which is ridiculous because (a) I don't have a boyfriend, (b) he's never said morethan six words to me, and (c) he looks like he could kill someone with his bare hands and feel zero remorse about it.
The guys I've actually dated: a study partner in sophomore year, that friend-of-a-friend setup that lasted three uncomfortable dates, the barista from the other location who was nice but boring, none of them ever made me feel anything close to what I feel when this man walks through the door.
But there's something about the intensity in his eyes when they briefly meet mine. The way he moves through space like he owns it. The sheer presence of him that makes my pulse kick up and my palms sweat and my brain short-circuit in ways that real-life men have never managed.
The heroes in my books suddenly make sense. I get it now. I understand why the heroines throw logic out the window for men who look at them like they're the only thing in the world that matters.
Not that he looks at me that way. He barely looks at me at all.
Also, he's terrifying.
Also, also... I may have thought about him while reading certain scenes in certain books that I will take to my grave.
It's 2:07 PM and he didn't come in this morning.
I notice this. I'm noticing that I notice this. I'm aware that this is a problem.
"You keep checking the door," Sarah says, wiping down the espresso machine. "Waiting for someone?"
"No." I grab my book and water bottle. "Just taking my break."
"Mmhmm. Your 'break.'" She air-quotes with suspicious enthusiasm. "Where you go read your little books in the alley."
"They're not little books. They're full-length novels."
"With shirtless men on the covers."
"Not always shirtless. Sometimes they're wearing suits."
"Oh, well, that's completely different then."
I shake my head and open the back door. The alley behind Bean & Leaf isn't picturesque, but it's quiet and I have fifteen minutes before I need to be back on the floor. Fifteen minutes to escape into a world where brooding men in expensive suits do terribly inappropriate things and somehow it all works out.
The west-coast December air is cold but not unbearable. I settle onto the metal stairs, pull my cardigan tighter, and open my book.
Taken by the Thornesby Sienna Cross. I'm on chapter twenty-three. Aleksander Thorne just cornered Lily in his office after she tried to quit, and he's about to tell her exactly why that's not happening. The tension is excruciating. The man is unhinged in the best possible way.
