But I’ll find out today.
The other reason I’m here this early, the one I suspect Claudia has already guessed for herself is the date. February 5th. Story’s birthday.
“Nothing to do with my other early morning customer then, I s’pose?”
Yup. She knows.
I pull my best confused expression and peer around, there’s not a soul in here. The pre-commute rush hasn’t started yet, but once the church clock chimes seven a.m. and The Beanery officially opens, there’ll be a queue out the door.
“Don’t know what you mean, Claud.” I shake my head. “I’ll take the two coffees to go, please. And can you put the flapjacks in separate bags . . . on second thought, put two in one bag and one in the other.”
As I’m out this early, I may as well take a flapjack home for Max while I’m at it.
Claudia turns to the coffee machine and the familiar whirr and chug of the beans grinding, followed by the drip and scent of brewing coffee fills the air.
“Am I putting six sugars in one of these?” This time, both brows shoot up and she knows she’s got me.
I don’t know why I’m so reluctant to admit I’m in the coffee shop before the sun’s risen buying flapjacks and coffee for Story and me. It’s probably got something to do with all the meddlers—Claudia included—who give me a look every time they see us together. A look that says “six years apart and we want to know what’s going on.”
Because they saw us grow up together, they’re as invested in our relationship as I am.
The other reason—one I’m never going to admit—is that I only know Story will be here because I overheard her talking to Claudia at the meeting on Monday.
Apparently, she runs every morning and picks up a coffee from The Beanery on the way home.
This morning, however, I’ve taken care of the coffees and will be intercepting her regular schedule.
“Yes, please.”
She continues in silence, virtually unheard of for Claudia. Every so often she opens her mouth, only to close it again when one of her staff rushes in with a trayof croissants fresh from the oven. By the time she’s done with the coffees and bagged up the flapjack, a small queue has formed behind me.
“Wish Story many happy returns.” She calls after me as I exit the shop, loud enough that every single person hears.
Not telling Claudia was my first mistake. My second is that I don’t actually know which direction Story will come in. It’s still dark enough the streetlamps are lit, casting a warm glow over the cobblestones. Down near the Valentine archway, I spot a few people rushing toward the station for the 07.07 train to London, but I don’t see anyone who looks like Story.
Deciding that she’s more likely to come from the direction of the fountain, I hedge my bets and walk toward it. I’m not halfway there before my chance pays off.
I wait while she sprints past The One True Love, along the pavement, legs powering her forward at an impressive speed.
Tight Lycra hugs her body—every curve, every dip and swell—leaving nothing to the imagination. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve thought about her like this since we rescued Churchill. It’s what’s been haunting my dreams during the very little sleep I’ve had.
That, and the almost kiss.
She’s passing Agatha’s when she spots me, surprise flashes in her eyes before it’s replaced with a little twinkle as she slows to a stop. Pulling out her AirPods, she swipes away the sheen of sweat on her forehead and grips her waist.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” she puffs.
I give her the excuse I gave Claudia. “Couldn’t sleep.”
I don’t want to admit that I’m here especially for her birthday. We might be trying this friends thing on for size, but it doesn’t have the same fit it once did—even after spending Saturday together building the kissing booth.
“Is today the day?”
I nod. “Yes.”
Her head tilts a fraction, studying me, but her eyes fall onto the coffee cups and the paper bags with The Beanery stamped on the side. “Can I smell flapjack?”
“Nothing gets past you.” I grin and hold one out to her. “Happy Birthday, Stor.”
