"Then let's make it so." This was what I did—-read people, find the angle that worked. "Meet me for coffee. We talk terms, work out details. If you decide it's too weird, we shake hands and part ways. No harm done."
She was silent for a long moment.
"Bitter Beans," she said finally. "One o'clock. I've got a few hours before my next shift."
"I'll be there."
"Hunter?"
"Yeah?"
"If this is some kind of joke, I'm going to be really pissed."
"It's not a joke." I meant it. "See you at one."
She hung up without saying goodbye.
I studied my reflection. The bruise on my jaw had turned a lovely purple, my eyes were bleary, and I was exactly what I appeared to be—-a hungover mess who'd just convinced his rideshare driver to meet him to hash out a plan of ultimate deception.
Hudson would be so proud.
BITTER BEANS WAS PACKEDfor a Thursday afternoon. Remote workers, high school kids ditching class, ranchers taking a break. I claimed a corner table fifteen minutes early, ordered black coffee I didn't want, and watched the door.
At 1:02, Dixie walked in.
Daylight was not playing fair. Hair down past her shoulders, catching the afternoon sun like polished wood. Last night it had been pulled back in a ponytail. Now she wore jeans that hugged curves I definitely hadn't noticed and a purple sweater that brought out the warmth in her eyes. No makeup I could see, but she didn't need it.
She would've stood out in this crowd even if she wasn't looking for me.
When she spotted me, she crossed the room with purpose, and I had the strangest urge to stand up like we were on an actual date.
"You showed up," she said.
"So did you."
"I'm here for the coffee." She glanced toward the counter. "Let me grab something and I'll be right back."
"Wait." I stood. "Let me get it. What do you want?"
"I can get my own coffee."
"I'm sure you can. But I'm the one who asked you to meet me. My treat."
She hesitated. "Just a small coffee is fine."
"Come on. They've got all that fancy stuff here. Get whatever you want."
"How do you know I want anything fancy?"
"Lucky guess." I smiled. "If we're doing this deal, you can at least get a decent coffee out of it."
She hesitated. "Fine. The caramel macchiato. Medium. With extra whipped cream."
"There we go."
When I came back with her drink—piled with whipped cream and caramel drizzle—I sat down across from her. She wrapped her hands around it.
"Thanks." She took a sip. "Okay, you were right. This is way better than black coffee."
