This time, he did more than twitch. His fingers flexed around the pastry box, which I'd taped back up, nice and tight. Considering the state of his stomach, he wouldn't be breaking the seal any time soon.
And why?Because hangovers were a bitch – as I'd learned a time or two myself.
Last night, I'd been doing more pouring than drinking, but it wasn't like I'd forced it down his throat.
Even so, the sight of that pastry box had me thinking.Not about Griff. About Tessa Sinclair – aka the barista.
Yeah, I knew her name.
AndI knew her shame.
What Ididn'tknow was how she'd ended up here, slinging coffee when she should've brazened it out in Chicago.
I mean, we all had our scandals, right?
There had to be more to her story.And hey, I was a curious guy.
But I wasn't so curious that I'd been willing to call her bluff at the coffee shop. I was no stranger to hard work. And Tessa – she'd been doing more than her share, handling difficult customers with no sign of help.
So yeah, I'd seen no reason to make her shitty morning all the shittier by calling her out, which was why I'd tipped her the hundred and called it good.
For now.
But later? Yeah, I'd be going back.
9
The Great Bike Debacle
Tessa
By 10:30 a.m., my shift had slowed to a crawl – which, of course, made it the perfect time for my lunch break.
At least, that's what Skip said.
Translation:he didn't want to cover the counter when the shop was actually busy.
Whatever.At least I had thirty minutes to clear my head before the lunchtime rush.
My plan was simple – ride my loaner bike around the island, enjoy the crisp spring air, and maybe stop thinking about Ryder Vaughn and the Chicago connection.
I ducked out the rear exit and spotted the bike exactly where I'd left it – in the narrow bike-rack near the door. Mine was the only one locked – not because everyone else was too trusting, but because I was too paranoid to lose a bike that wasn’t even mine.
On autopilot, I unlocked the cable, pulled back the bike, and swung a leg over the seat. And then I froze.
The seat was too low.
The handlebar grips were wrapped in white tape.
And the bell – the cutesy silver one on the left – wasn’t mine. I knew this for sure. And why? Becausemybike had no bell.
I winced. "Oh, no."
I climbed off to double-check, praying I was wrong.
I wasn't.
In my pre-dawn fog, I must've grabbed Maisie's personal bike instead of the loaner she'd been nice enough to let me borrow.
