"Thanks."
I took the mug. Our fingers didn't touch. We were both very careful about that.
Silence. The kind that screamed.
He sipped his coffee. I sipped mine. The city sprawled beyond his windows, millions of people starting their day without the particular torment of standing three feet from a man they'd kissed senseless the night before.
"The Whitmore Gallery opening is tomorrow," he said. "Seven o'clock."
"Right. Yeah. I remember."
"I'll have a car here by six-thirty. I assume you have a different dress than the green one you wore to Ashford’s gala?”
“Yes.”
"Okay."
More silence. I cupped the mug with both hands, staring into the coffee as though it contained answers.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Willow?—"
"I should get to the shop." I grabbed my bag from the chair where I'd dropped it last night—alifetime ago, before the couch and his mouth and the complete obliteration of every rule we'd set. "Mika's been covering a lot and I don't want to dump on her."
He paused, didn’t offer to drive me like yesterday. I was grateful. Not that I didn’t wholly appreciate that his ride was better than mine but…yeah, better to stick to my own ride today.
"See you tonight," I said, already moving toward the door.
"See you tonight."
I made it to the elevator before the exhale punched out of me. My legs felt wobbly and my pulse was doing a thing that had nothing to do with caffeine.
Twenty-three years old and running away from a conversation I wasn't equipped to have.
On brand, Monroe. Very on brand.
Brew & Bean smelled the way it always did—roasted beans, warm milk, the faint sweetness of vanilla syrup—and I clung to the familiarity of it as I unlocked the front door and started my opening routine. Grinder on. Ovens preheated. Pastry case stocked. The espresso machine was behaving today, which felt cruel—a temporary reprieve before its inevitable and expensive death.
Mika arrived at six-thirty, shaking rain from her umbrella and carrying a paper bag from the bakery down the street.
"Almond croissants," she announced, dropping the bag on the counter. "I decided we deserve nice things today."
"Based on what?"
"Based on the fact that it's Thursday and Thursdays are—" She stopped. Looked at me. Really looked at me, with those dark eyes that missed nothing and forgave everything. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Willow."
"What?"
"Your face is doing the thing."
"I don't have a thing."
"You have a very specific thing where your left eye twitches and your smile goes brittle and you start moving at double speed so no one can pin you down long enough to ask questions — and you didn’t immediately berate me for bringing in pastries from the competition.” She blocked my path to the espresso machine. "Talk."
"Can we just—I need to prep the?—"
