I roll my shoulders, trying to release the tension that's coiled there. My heart rate still hasn't completely settled from the confrontation, and I hate that I'm wound so tight. Even more, I hate that a part of me is waiting for Axel to walk through that door, like his presence might somehow make this knot in my chest loosen.
That's dangerous thinking. I can handle rude customers and busy mornings on my own. I've been doing it for months. I don't need anyone else's reassurance or protection.
But as another group of customers enters and the bell over the door jingles, I can't help the small surge of disappointment when it's not him.
The morning rush is finally easing, giving way to that brief pocket of calm between breakfast and lunch. I’m wiping down the espresso machine when the bell above the door chimes. The air tightens. His presence drags my focus, whether I want it to or not. Axel’s body fills the entrance like he owns the place. Every woman in here glances up, but his eyes find only me. My stomach knots, heat crawling down my spine. He leans on the counter, close enough I catch the faint scent of his cologne. My hands want to steady themselves, but I keep them busy, pretending I don’t care that he’s here. Pretending I don’t feel the spark between us, the one that never lets me forget he’s watching every move.
“Morning,” Axel says, and the warmth of it sends a little tremor through my ribs. I lift my gaze, steadying my expression even though my chest is doing somersaults.
“You’re late for your usual caffeine fix.” He leans against the counter with that easy confidence that never reads as arrogance. His eyes catch mine for just a heartbeat too long before flickingdown to my throat. I feel it there, a spark that makes me stiffen, as if his gaze has set my skin alight.
“Had a meeting,” he says. He slides a bottle across the counter, the gesture casual, but the look in his eyes isn’t. “Thought I’d missed my window.”
I freeze, hand hovering mid-reach, staring at the elegant label: Blanc Wineries Cabernet, new vintage. “What’s this?”
“Thought you could use a relaxing night with a glass of wine sometime.” His gaze tracks over me dropping to my lips, my throat, my collarbone.
My shoulders lock. My walls snap back into place.
“I don’t date customers,” I say too quickly, too sharply. His brows lift in surprise, then soften into understanding.
“Not with me,” he corrects gently. “For you. Just you.”
My defenses falter. “What?”
"You look like you haven’t had a night to yourself in months." He pushes the wine closer, voice dropping. "Take it upstairs. Lock the door. Strip down. Sink into the bath. Drink every drop. You can share the next bottle I bring in with your sister or friends. His stare pins me, steady and hungry. "But tonight, it’s just for you. No one else." His tone drops even lower and I feel the tension in my body start to build. “No café, no customers, no…” He lets the rest hang in the space between us.
The thoughtfulness of it bowls me over. My throat tightens, but I force out, “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Consider it a donation to the Exhausted Café Owner Fund,” he says with a half grin. “Community service, really. Practically court-ordered.”
His humor gives me room to breathe. I manage a shaky laugh. “Is that a real thing?”
“If not, it should be.” He taps the bottle lightly, then meets my eyes again, steady, unguarded.
“From what I’ve seen, you could use a minute to yourself. That’s all.”
He sounds so sincere that the tension between us shifts into something quieter, deeper, a current of understanding that hums in my veins. He’s seen the exhaustion I hide behind my barista smile, and instead of offering to lift it, he’s simply acknowledging it’s there.
“Thank you,” I murmur, meaning it more than I’d ever admit out loud. He nods once, as if we’ve settled something important without a contract.
“You deserve to breathe sometimes, Sadie.” He says my name like it matters, the syllables deliberate and gentle. Before I can respond, he turns for the door, lifting a hand in a casual goodbye. No linger, no chase, just leaving the gift and the choice. The bell jingles behind him. I’m left clutching the wine bottle, feeling its unexpected weight, heavier than fermented grapes.
“Well,” Finn says, popping up beside me with a sly grin, “that was interesting.” I shoot him a warning look.
“It’s just wine.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirks but wisely steps back when I narrow my eyes.
Axel Slade noticed what I needed without a word, gave it without asking for anything in return. My hands are still unsteady when I turn back to the espresso machine. Not fear, not wariness, but a dangerous thought: maybe he really is someone I could trust. And trust, from where I’m standing, is the riskiest thing of all.
My gaze lingers at the door a heartbeat too long after Axel slips out, a strange ache in my chest. When I turn my attention back, the dark-green wine bottle on the counter catches my eye, morning light glittering off its curves.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” I jump. Rowan’s already beside me, lifting the bottle and squinting at the label.
“Blanc Wineries Cabernet,” she purrs, tapping it with one nail. “Oooh. This isn’t grocery-store swill.”
The bottle is out of her hand and back in mine in an instant. “It’s nothing. A… customer appreciation gift.”
