“You’d get over it,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You like quiet more than you admit.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “You think you know what I like now?”
“I just know that when you walked in and saw all the empty tables, you felt relaxed,” Alex said, tone maddeningly calm. “That counts as evidence.”
I tried for another eye-roll. “Or maybe,” I countered, “I simply don’t enjoy being stared at while I’m trying to eat.”
“Exactly.” She lifted her hands like she’d just proven a theorem. “Which is why I made sure there would be no staring. Just food.”
“That’s one way to justify a whole-café takeover,” I muttered.
While we waited for the rest of our order, she leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming against her latte cup.
“So,” I said, tilting my head just enough to sound curious but not too eager, “Do you always drag people to cafés that look like they belong in an indie film, or is this a… special occasion?”
She let out a soft, amused hum, eyes flicking up to mine. “Depends. How often do you go to a cafe that is rented out for lunch?”
I smirked. “Not often. I’d say it’s pretty extravagant for a regular Tuesday.”
Her gaze lingered on me a moment longer than necessary, and I felt a little spark, the one that made my fingers fidget against the cup. “Or maybe,” she said slowly, “You just haven’t had the right company.”
“Is that an invitation, or are you just flattering yourself?”
She chuckled, resting her arms on the table. “What can I say? I’ve got good taste. Besides, this is my little hideout when the training grind gets too loud. No one bothers me here.”
My brows rose. “So you’re saying I should feel honored? Exclusive access to the Alexandra Cadiz secret café?”
“Exactly,” she said with mock gravity.
Just then, the waitress arrived with our plates, a vibrant spread of colorful salads, perfectly toasted sourdough, and a side of golden, crispy fries that smelled like heaven. The food looked as fresh as the atmosphere around us, the kind of thing that would definitely end up on someone’s Instagram story if either of us were reckless enough to post.
Alex eyed her plate, then flicked her gaze back at me with a curious smile. “How’s the wrist holding up? You still planning to come back for the US Open?”
I speared a tomato, took my time chewing just to annoy her, then finally answered. “It’s better since yesterday, slowly but surely. I’m not rushing anything, but yeah, I want to be back. Can’t miss the US Open, it’s a big deal.”
She nodded, her expression softening into something almost protective. “I’ll be rooting for you. No doubt.”
“You’re not rooting for yourself?”
She let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Honestly? I’m not trying to win right now. My goal’s just to get back in shape, find my rhythm again. If I make it to the quarters at the Open, that’s a bonus. But for now, it’s baby steps.”
I tilted my head, grinning. “Well, you’d better root for me. You were my bench cheerleader at Wimbledon, remember? How could you not be rooting for me?”
That earned me a sharp blush across her cheeks, and I almost dropped my fork laughing.
“Oh please,” she groaned, pressing a hand to her forehead like she could hide behind it. “Just forget that ever happened.”
“Uh, never,” I shot back immediately. “Honestly, how could I forget? Alexandra Wilson-Cadiz sat on the bench,cheering me on at the Wimbledon Final. Nowthat’sa moment you don’t forget.”
She pointed a finger at me accusingly. “For the record, I wasn’tbench cheering.I was… emotionally supporting. There’s a difference.”
“Emotionally supporting?” I laughed. “You were practically doing fist-pumps after every point. I half-expected you to break out with those little cheer balls.”
Alex groaned louder. “You’re evil.”
“I should’ve had that framed. Forget trophies, just put up a poster of you yelling your lungs out for me in Centre Court.” I teased, leaning back smugly.
She raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh, so now you want me to be your personal hype squad? Should I start practicing dance moves or what?”
