Trent whistles. “What happened to you? You wrestle a coffee maker?”
“Something like that.” I set the one cup that survived on the conference table. Its twin didn’t make it, but my shirt took one for the team.
Tyler checks his watch. “We’re heading to lunch. You can explain your latest disaster over burgers.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” I protest, but they’re already past me toward the door. Trent slaps me on the back.
“Save it for The Place,” he says. “I want the full story in front of witnesses.”
Fifteen minutes later, we slide into our usual booth at The Place, the old diner that’s been the Slade family touchdown spotforever. Tyler and Trent sit across from me, grins of amused curiosity already in place.
“Alright, spill,” Trent says as our drinks arrive. “And I don’t mean more coffee on that poor shirt.”
I roll my eyes. “Just a small accident at Pike’s Perk. Nothing worth broadcasting.”
“Pike’s Perk,” Tyler repeats, trading a look with Trent. “Shocker.”
“You’re in there more than you’re here,” Trent adds, leaning forward. “Is the coffee that good, or do you just like the ambiance?”
“It’s decent.” I force it casual. “Nothing special.”
Tyler snorts. “That’s why you’ve been there every day this week.”
“I like routine,” I snap. “It’s comforting. Builds character.”
“Since when?” Trent laughs. “You call schedules ‘spontaneity’s murder scene.’”
I take a sip of water, stalling. “Maybe I’m evolving.”
“Into what?” Tyler asks. “A guy who gets steamrolled by a barista and keeps coming back?”
“She didn’t steamroll me,” I say. “Mugs fell, coffee spilled, simple accident.”
Trent raises an eyebrow. “She?”
“Sadie,” I admit. “The owner.”
“Sadie,” Tyler says slowly. “Dark hair, serious eyes, runs that place like a boot camp?”
“You know her?” I blurt.
He smiles. “Been there a few times. She’s intense.”
“She doesn’t have time for bullshit,” I say, the words sticking on my tongue. “She’s running the place with one hand, raising a kid with the other. Doesn’t leave much room for anyone else.”
Especially not another man. Not unless he’s strong enough to take some of it from her shoulders. Not unless he’s me.
Trent leans back, studying me. “Wow. You’re going soft on us, Axel.”
“I’m not soft,” I say. “Just… observant.”
“About someone you claim is ‘just a barista,’” Tyler points out.
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t you have actual work to discuss? Brewery stuff?”
“This is better,” Trent says. “You haven’t looked this rattled since that disaster date with the yoga instructor.”
“I’m not rattled,” I insist. But she... she seems tired. Guarded, like she’s carrying everything on her shoulders and trusts no one to help. I wonder what she looks like when that armor slips, when she lets someone in. How those lips would curve if she let herself smile for real. What it’d take to be the man she lets close enough to see it… close enough to taste it.
