“Who sent you?” he repeats, each word carefully enunciated, like he thinks I might not understand English.
I blink up at him, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “Nobody sent me. I was delivering drinks. Your dog ran into me.”
For a moment, we stare at each other. The morning sounds of Aspen Ridge fade into the background noise of car engines, tourist chatter, and the distant sound of a leaf blower, leaving just the two of us in this bizarre standoff. His gaze doesn't waver or soften, like he's trying to read my soul through my eyes.
His eyes drop to the name on my apron,Sage,embroidered in cheerful blue thread that Mom picked out years ago. Then it shifts to my apron pocket, where my phone is barely visible. Before I can process what's happening, he extends his hand palm up.
“Your phone,” he demands.
My brain shorts out completely. “Excuse me?”
“Your phone,” he repeats. “Give it to me.”
Every rational part of my mind screams that I should refuse, and back away from this stranger who's acting like he has some right to my personal property. But there's something about his voice, the absolute certainty in it, that has me reaching into my pocket before I can stop myself.
My fingers close around my phone case, cracked plastic that I should have replaced months ago, and I find myself placing itin his outstretched palm. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, warm and surprisingly gentle for someone who radiates danger.
The screen lights up immediately. I never bothered with a passcode, figuring there wasn't much point in a town where everyone knows everyone else's business anyway. His thumbs work the screen with ease, every movement confident.
“What are you?—”
“Quiet.”
The single word stops my protest in its tracks. He's typing something, his attention completely focused on my phone screen. After a moment, I hear the soft whoosh of a text being sent. Then he's handing the phone back to me, his expression unchanged.
“I'll send you the bill to have my suit cleaned,” he tells me, his voice flat and businesslike.
I stare at him, my mind reeling. “Are youseriousright now?”
His expression remains steady. If anything, his hazel eyes grow colder, like I've just confirmed some suspicion he had about me.
The dog chooses that moment to look up at me, tail wagging in what I swear is an apologetic gesture. At least one of them has manners.
Before I can find my voice again, the man barks something sharp in what sounds like Russian. The German shepherd rises immediately, moving to his side with flawless discipline. They make quite a pair. Both dark, intimidating, and completely unbothered by the chaos they've caused.
The man turns to leave, then pauses. For a second, I think he might apologize and acknowledge that his dog started this whole mess. Instead, he gives me one final look, his unsettling eyes traveling from my coffee-stained shoes to my horrified expression.
“Be more careful,” he tells me, like I'm the one who launched myself across the sidewalk.
Then they're gone. The man strides down the street with the confidence of someone who's never doubted his right to take up space, the dog matching his pace perfectly. The crowd of tourists parts around them without being asked, some instinct warning them to step aside. Even from behind, there's something about the way he moves that suggests he's used to being obeyed.
I stand in the middle of the sidewalk, drenched in a vanilla latte, cappuccino, and whatever seasonal abomination was in the other two cups. My cardigan clings to my skin where the hot liquid soaked through, and my hands shake slightly as I stare down at my phone. The tray lies at my feet like a casualty of war, surrounded by plastic lids and the dreams of my day’s earnings.
The screen displays my text messages, and a new conversation thread appears with a number I don't recognize. The contact’s name is listed as Luka Barinov. The message he sent from my phone is simple and direct:This is Sage.
He has my number now. And somehow, that feels more invasive than anything else that's happened this morning.
“Well, Luka,” I mutter under my breath, glaring down the street where he's already disappeared into the crowd, “screw you too.”
A tourist couple walking past gives me a wide berth, probably thinking I'm one of those locals who's been driven crazy byaltitude and isolation. I don't blame them. I feel a little crazy right now, standing here talking to myself while covered in coffee.
The walk back to Bean & Bloom feels longer than usual. Every step squelches inside my shoes, and I can feel my hair starting to curl from the humidity of evaporating coffee. By the time I push through the front door, I look like I've survived a caffeinated natural disaster.
“Rough morning?” Jenny, my part-time employee, looks up from wiping down tables with barely concealed amusement. She's nineteen and a community college student who works here to help pay for her nursing classes. Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail that makes me acutely aware of my own disheveled state.
“You could put it that way,” I reply, peeling off my soggy cardigan. “I need to call Allison and apologize for losing her coffee order to a German shepherd with boundary issues.”
Jenny's eyebrows climb toward her hairline and a small smirk tugs at her lips.
