Two o’clock. Orange Blossoms Café. Talon. Two cups. Meeting someone.
Was heTheWriteGuy? My heart leapt at the thought while my brain simultaneously shot the idea down.
No, if Talon wasTheWriteGuy, he would have said something. He wouldn’t have kept something like that from me. So it had to be that he was meeting another woman here.
The pang deepened. My throat tightened. I told myself it was ridiculous. Talon was allowed to meet whomever he wanted. But the idea of him waiting here for another woman made me want to crawl right out of my skin. Although … I was here to meet someone else too.
“I’m actually meeting someone too,” I said quickly, trying to cover my reaction.
His mouth curved, slow and careful. “Yeah? Then maybe we can wait together until they show up.”
My pulse stuttered. Wait together? I wasn’t sure what to say to that.
I swallowed hard, then forced a small smile at a loss of how to respond. “Uh, sure. Why not?”
We found a table near the window. He set the cups down, sliding one toward me without explanation.
My brow furrowed. “Is this …?”
“Vanilla latte, two pumps hazelnut, extra foam,” he said, like it was nothing.
Like it wasn’texactlymy order.
Shock rattled through me, though I tried not to let it show. “Thanks.”
He only shrugged, sipping from his own cup, putting his tattoo on full display, reminding me of the moment we’d shared on his couch as I’d finally gotten to run my fingers against the black ink. He was looking all casual. Too casual.
We made small talk about swim and work while we waited, though my mind spun too fast to focus. I kept stealing glances at him, trying to piece together what was happening. Why was he here? I couldn’t get that question to stop looping through my head. Why did he havemy coffee order memorized? And why did it feel like the floor beneath me was shifting, inch by inch, toward some massive truth?
Then the barista called from the counter, “Order forTheWriteGuy—turkey pesto panini!”
The name slammed into me like a truck.
My head snapped up. My body went rigid. The words echoed in my ears.
Talon pushed back his chair and stood, giving me an almost sheepish glance. “Hold on. That’s me.”
And then he walked to the counter.
I sat frozen, the world tilting.
TheWriteGuy.
The name. The order. The two cups of coffee.
It all clicked into place, so blindingly obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before.
Talon Everhart—guarded, infuriating, wonderful Talon—wasTheWriteGuy. The man I’d poured out all my thoughts to, my fears, my hopes. The man I’d thought was a faceless confidant somewhere out in the void.
It was him. It had been him all along.
My pulse thundered in my ears as he returned with the tray, setting it down on the table like nothing had changed. But everything had changed.
Everything.
“Talon,” I breathed, still stunned. “You’re?—”
“TheWriteGuy,” he finished softly, meeting my gaze head-on. No deflection this time. No games. Just the truth.
