He barely noticed Cassian’s approach, but he felt the shift in air beside him.
“You’ve got the whole menu, and you’re starving for what someone else ordered. That’s a choice,” came the drawl.
Rafael glanced over at him, but stayed silent.
“At first I thought it was about irritating King,” Cassian said, eyes tracking Bea’s laugh. “I can relate. I like shaking the mountain, just to see if it moves. But this isn’t that.”
Still nothing. No denial, no agreement. No need.
“You and King are a different species,” he went on, leaning back against the balustrade, folding his arms. “She chose him for a reason. You really think a girl like that wants what you’re offering?”
Rafael took a sip of his drink. “I don’t think. I know.”
“She’s been his for over a year. That makes this cocky, even for you.” Cassian’s look was dry, somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “So what is it? Lust? Strategy?”
“Recognition.”
“Of what?”
Rafael put his hand in his pocket. “She watches the edge of things like she’s wondering what it feels like to step off. No one’s touched that part of her yet. Not even him.”
“Careful, Griffin. Wanting a man’s future wife is one thing. Believing she’ll walk away from everything King will offer her is another.” He turned to go, then paused. “What if she jumps, but it’s to something softer?”
Rafael set down his tumbler on the ledge. “If you knew it was meant for you, would you let it go just ’cause it didn’t come easy?”
Cassian stared at him, then smirked. “Let’s hope she’s fireproof.”
Bea almost didn’t go in.
The café looked like it had been designed by someone who once described a sunbeam as alifestyle.
Terrazzo tables. Pastel umbrellas. The waitress wore linen overalls. A man at the window was drinking something yellow with a literal flower in it.
Bea clasped her hands low by her stomach. The Porsche was parked across the street, already judging her. Her hair was in a messy bun, not the romantic kind, just theforgot dry shampooway.
She and Lillian had stayed later than planned at the networking event.
Still, Bea had set her alarm, gotten up early, pulled on a hoodie, and slipped out before Georgie could ask where she was going.
She was not dressed for foam.
But she’d made a list. And she was a woman of honor.
So, smoothing her hands down the front of her pants, she finally entered.
The barista had cheekbones and a hat. That was it. Just cheekbones. And Hat.
Bea cleared her throat. “Hi, um—can I have a Foamy Finish?”
He didn’t blink, just wrote it down like she’d ordered something normal.
“Girl wants a Foamy Finish!” he called out ten seconds later. Loudly. To the entire café.
It echoed off the glass. Bea died in stages.
When it arrived, it was tiny. Adorably, insultingly tiny. Espresso for a fairy. It was topped with a pale yellow foam that shimmered faintly and smelled like dessert and vacation and dirty things in a hammock.
Bea lifted it cautiously.
