"What's your name?" I ask, because I realize I don't actually know it. Tank didn't mention anything about an omega when he spoke to Julian about the bodyguard favor.
"Rosemarie," she says without looking up from her work. "But most people call me Rose. You?"
"Elias." I pause, watching her layer the caramelized honey into the bottom of a mug. "So, Rosemarie. Where does someone learn to make coffee like this?"
"Here and there," she says, and there's something deliberately vague about the answer. "I worked at Starbucks Reservatory for a while. Before that, I trained with a few independent roasters. Beforethat..." She shrugs. "I've always been drawn to it. The precision. The creativity. The way you can make something beautiful out of the same basic ingredients depending on how you approach it."
Starbucks Reservatory. That's not entry-level. That's the elite tier—the place where they train baristas to be artists rather than button-pushers.
"And the latte art?" I ask, because I can see her preparing something that looks suspiciously like she's about to attempt a design.
She glances up at me with a smirk. "Watch and find out."
I do. I watch as she pours the espresso over the caramelized honey, watch it swirl and mix into something that smells absolutely incredible. I watch as she adds the cardamom—just a pinch, carefully measured. I watch as she begins to pour the frothed oat milk with a concentration that borders on meditative.
Her wrist moves in patterns I can't quite follow—deliberate, precise, with the kind of control that takes years to develop. She's creating something on the surface of the drink, building layer by layer with the milk foam, using what looks like a toothpick for finer details.
When she finally steps back, she lets out a breath of relief. "Got the art perfectly," she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
I can't help myself. I'm off the stool and crossing to the counter before I've consciously decided to move, drawn by curiosity and something else I can't quite name. I come up behind her, close enough that I can look over her shoulder at what she's created.
And I stop breathing.
Because there, in the foam of my ridiculously specific coffee order, is Sasha. Not a generic dog—Sasha. The distinctive pattern of his fur, the shape of his ears, even the intelligent expression in his amber eyes. And on his head, perfectly rendered in milk foam, is a fire helmet.
A fire helmet with what looks like the number of my station etched into it.
How did she—I'm wearing my gear. She saw my gear and made—she made Sasha into a firefighter. For me.
The detail is insane. She captured the slight tilt of his head, the way one ear always sits a little higher than the other. She even got the expression in his eyes—that intelligent, watchful look that makes you feel like he's judging your life choices and finding them wanting.
I whistle, low and impressed. "Well fuck. You're good at this shit."
She turns to look at me, and I realize too late how close we're standing. Two inches apart, maybe less. Close enough that I can see the individual flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. Close enough that her scent wraps around me like a physical embrace, all cinnamon and coffee and something underneath that's purelyher.
She's not pulling away. If anything, she's leaning in slightly, her chin tilting up to hold my gaze. There's pride in her expression—the justified satisfaction of someone who knows they've done something well—but there's also something else. Something that looks a lot like heat.
"Now try it," she says, and there's a challenge in her voice that makes my competitive instincts flare to life.
I arch an eyebrow, matching her smirk with one of my own. "Alright. But if it doesn't taste divine, you owe me."
She doesn't miss a beat. "And if it does, you owe me a date, firefighter."
A date. She just bet me a date on the quality of her coffee. This woman—this gorgeous, talented, confusing omega who showed up in Tank's kitchen wearing his shirt and making friends with his dog—just wagered a date on her barista skills.
And based on what I'm looking at, I'm absolutely going to lose this bet. Which means I'm going to win something much better.
I think I might be in trouble.
My grin spreads wider, showing teeth. Something warm unfurls in my chest—anticipation, maybe, or the beginning of something I don't want to name yet. Something that feels suspiciously like hope. I wink at her, because I can't resist, because she's looking at me with those challenging eyes and I want to see what happens if I push back.
"Chief, to be exact," I correct her, because if we're going to play this game, we might as well get the titles right. "But I can totally keep a promise like that."
CHAPTER 13
Coffee, Tears, And Chaos
~ROSEMARIE~
