His widen slightly—surprise, then something darker that makes my stomach flip. I watch him take in the scene: me, surrounded by my friends, no empty tables except?—
“Dean!” Michelle calls out, bright as a Broadway spotlight. “Only seat left is by Jo. Funny how that worked out!”
No. No no no.
Dean’s expression shifts to something between panic and resignation. The same expression probably on my face right now.
“I can come back—” he starts.
“Nonsense!” Hazel pats the chair next to me. “Plenty of room. We’re all friends here.”
We are absolutely setting him up, and he knows it, and I know it, and the whole coffee shop knows it based on the way everyone has suddenly stopped talking to watch this unfold.
Dean walks over like a man approaching his execution. Sits down in the chair next to mine—close enough that I can smell his cologne, that woodsy clean scent that’s been haunting my dreams. Close enough that our knees almost touch under the table.
Almost.
The air between us crackles.
“Morning,” he says, voice carefully neutral.
“Morning,” I manage, trying not to notice the way his shoulders fill out that uniform. Trying not to remember how his hand felt in mine yesterday. Trying not to think about the fact that we’re now sitting so close I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
Except I do.
“Coffee, Dean?” Michelle appears with a pot, filling his cup before he can answer. “Oh, you’ve got a full cup now. Can’t leave with a full cup—that’s wasteful.”
Dean and I exchange a look. His lips twitch, almost a smile.
“Your friends are subtle,” he murmurs.
“About as subtle as a house fire,” I murmur back, and immediately regret the metaphor.
But he laughs. Just a brief huff of air that feels like victory.
From a nearby table, Grandma Hensley’s voice rings out. “Look at them! The tension! The chemistry!”
I close my eyes. Maybe if I can’t see them, they can’t see me.
“In my day, we just kissed and got it over with!” Grandma Hensley continues, apparently operating a running commentary service no one requested.
Dean’s ears are turning red. Actual red, visible even in the coffee shop lighting, and it’s so endearing I almost forget to be mortified.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t be.” His voice is low, meant only for me. “This is...actually, this is kind of nice. In a horrifying way.”
I risk a glance at him. He’s looking at me with those dark eyes, something soft in his expression that makes my breath catch.
“Dean.” Hazel leans forward. “What do you think makes a good romantic partner?”
He coughs. “I don’t think?—”
“Jo, do you prefer men in uniform?” Amber asks with theatrical innocence.
My face flames. “I prefer men who don’t ambush me in coffee shops.”
