Brewed Awakening wraps around us the moment we step inside, warmth and the scent of gingerbread and vanilla coffee sinking into my lungs. Edison bulbs dangle from exposed beams, casting a honeyed glow over wooden tables. The waitress leads us to a corner spot near the window, and Lance pulls out my chair with such earnest gallantry I nearly laugh. Nearly.
It’s nice. The thoughtfulness. The feeling of being cared for without having to ask. I could get used to this princess treatment.
I settle into my seat, crossing my legs carefully.
His gaze meets mine across the table, and he smiles—the kind that reaches his eyes and creates little creases at the corners.
“So, what brought you to Maplewood Springs?” Lance asks while sipping his Americano.
“I actually grew up here,” I tell him, curling my hands around my mug of vanilla latte and letting the warmth seep into my fingers. “I went to New York for school and work. Then received a job offer I couldn’t pass up.”
He tilts his head. “And you took it.”
“I did—it’s my dream job.” I don’t elaborate on what it’s like to have my ex-boyfriend as my boss, because I’m not here to drag Jake into this, not tonight. “And my parents are thrilled,” I add, lifting my shoulders slightly. “They love that I’m not thousands of miles away anymore.”
“I’m glad you came back.” His confidence is striking, unforced. “It’s a nice town. You must know all the good spots—I might need a tour guide, if you’re up for it.”
I feel my lips curve into a genuine smile. “I’m sure I can find someone available.”
“Is that so?” His eyes glint with humor. “I’m looking for this specific guide—blonde hair, beautiful eyes, marketing expert.”
“She might be able to pencil you in,” I reply. “I’d have to check her schedule.”
“She better text me.” His grin is infectious.
“Hey, we should make a bet,” Lance suggests, leaning forward. “Whoever picks the best tasting dessert gets to choose our next date.”
“You’re on!” The word ‘next’ sends a pleasant tingle through me.
I lift the dessert menu and scan the options, each one more mouthwatering than the last. Chocolate lava cake. Strawberry shortcake. Apple pie with bourbon caramel. I’m halfway to deciding on all three when a shadow falls across our table, and a voice that could belong to only one person makes my eyes flare.
“Hey guys. What a surprise to run into you here.”
My head snaps up to find Jake hovering over us.
Chapter 10
“Mind if I join you?” Jake asks, his hand already clamped around a chair from the neighboring table, dragging it over like he’s been cordially invited to our side.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he’s here. Sabotage. Plain and petty—dressed up in a polite question he didn’t wait to get an answer to. The urge to lash out burns in my chest, hot and immediate, begging to be released.
But I can’t. Not here. Not in Brewed Awakening, where the walls feel like they have ears and the whole town treats gossip like a sport. Making a scene would only make Lance uncomfortable and confirm to half of Maplewood Springs that I still haven’t moved on from my high school boyfriend. So instead, I recross my legs and silently pray he sits beside me, close enough for a pointed stiletto to meet his shin.
No such luck. Jake drops his unwelcome backside at the far end of our table, safely out of reach of my too-short legs and myperfectly justified stiletto fantasies. I shoot him a death glare and wait for him to take the hint.
He doesn’t.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, settling in like he’s planning to stay through dessert.
The café‘s warm lighting gilds the angles of his face, catching on that stubborn jaw I once found so unfairly attractive. Now all I can think about is how satisfying it would be to shove a breadstick in his mouth just to stop it from moving.
Without anyone asking him—because why would we?—Jake decides to enlighten Lance about our upcoming project, sliding into explanation like he’s the host of this table.
“Sarah and I are working on a campaign for a perfume line,” he tells Lance, who looks about as interested as a vegetarian at a butcher’s convention.
Lance’s fingers drum against the table. Once. Twice. His smile stays in place, steady and polite, but his eyes give him away, sharp and dark, like he’s one comment away from punching Jake.
Jake helps himself to the water pitcher, pouring a glass with maddening slowness. “As good a time as any to discuss our angle for the upcoming campaign.”
