Carson stepped through the door, shaking snow from his hair, completely unaware of the emotional meltdown he’d just detonated across the table.
The man was a walking avalanche.
My sisters stared at him.
Then they stared at me.
And all three of us knew, with terrifying clarity—
I truly was doomed.
Carson stepped up to the counter, ordered an Americano without milk or sugar, because, of course, he would drink coffee like a man preparing for winter combat, and turned.
And saw us.
Sawme.
My ribcage went tight, like something inside me had been cinched. He nodded politely at my sisters, but when his eyes met mine, something in his expression softened. Just barely. A warm flicker. A recognition.
I looked away so fast I might have sprained my neck.
“Sienna,” Fiona whispered behind her cup, “he’s staring at you.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He’s absolutely staring,” Violet confirmed. “He’s smiling, too. A tiny, private smile.”
“Stop narrating!” I hissed.
But it was too late.
Carson approached our table.
Slowly.
Casually.
Like a man who had zero idea he was personally responsible for my blood pressure rising every time he appeared.
“Good morning,” he said, standing at the edge of the booth with that calm, steady voice that should be illegal before noon.
“Morning!” Violet chirped.
“Hey, Carson,” Fiona said brightly.
I said nothing.
Because my vocal cords were locked behind a firewall of panic.
He held his Americano like it was part of him. No additions. No flavoring. Just black, hot, functional caffeine. It made me want to evaporate into steam.
Violet smiled up at him. “Are you feeling good about our first guests of the season? The honeymoon couple?”
“Yes,” Carson said. “Looking forward to it.”
His eyes flicked toward me again.
Oops.
