The only reason I’m subjecting myself to this circle of hell is Gemma. The first day we met is seared into my memory—and stained on my shirt—and I figure if I can follow the course of her usual morning routine and grab her favorite coffee and pastry, I might have a shot at breaking through the ice wall she’s likely reconstructed. A peace offering of sorts.
Is it pathetic that I’ve memorized her coffee order? Probably. But at this point, I might as well surrender to the desperation that’s overcome my body.
I just hope it fucking works.
“Hullo, son. What can I get for you?” the old man asks. His accent is strong—northern Scottish, I think.
“A large latte and…” I scan the pastry selection, trying to recall which she favors. My eyes land on the apricot Danish. Bingo. “An apricot Danish.”
The old man narrows his eyes at me suspiciously before shuffling off to make the coffee and bag the Danish.
I stand back, shoving my hands in my pockets. The paint is peeling off the kiosk like a sunburn and there’s not a single customer in sight, despite the busy gardens. It’s not exactly the establishment I’d choose for my coffee, but this isn’t about me.
He places the items on the counter. The stamp on the to-go coffee cup catches my eye. It’s the same small green faded logo on the cup Gemma spilled on me the day we met, and I know I’ve got the right one.
“Anything for yourself?” he asks, eyes knowing.
I knit my brows together. “How did you know this isn’t for me?”
He smirks. “Lucky guess, lad.”
“Good guess,” I say, impressed. I slip my wallet from my pocket. “What do I owe you?”
“Thirteen pounds.” He bares his crooked teeth in what I assume is meant to be a smile.
I blink, certain I misheard. “Pardon?”
“Thirteen pounds,” he repeats.
For coffee and a pastry?No wonder he doesn’t have customers.
My expression must mirror my thoughts because he barks a laugh. “Aye, I know. I’m as outraged as you are. Running costs have skyrocketed and I can’t keep up. I’d love to charge you less, but I’m almost at the point of closing. Sorry, lad.”
I shoot him a polite grin and pay for the items.
Thirteen bloody pounds. Ridiculous.
It better not taste like it was filtered through a dirty sock.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Gemma
I’m so sorry for putting you at risk like that. We shouldn’t have done this at all.
The words have been replaying in an endless loop in my mind since Saturday night.
The prick.
First, he convinces me to have sex with him—only him, no less—then he has the balls to turn around and tell me it was a mistake.
I realize the wordmistakedidn’t exactly leave his mouth, but it didn’t have to. I could see it in his stupid, gorgeous baby blues.
I’m punching the buttons on my keyboard far too forcefully, but I’m pissed.
At least my eyes are somewhat back to normal—small mercies.
“Christ, who twisted your knickers?” Henry asks, strolling into my office and falling into the seat opposite my desk.
