She handled his barely concealed patronizing well. Better than I would have. Her customer service mask slipped into place, but I caught the tremor in her fingers as she worked the espresso machine. Caught the way her smile didn't reach her eyes when Devon announced his engagement, his junior partnership, his perfect Riverside house hunt.
What a prick.I caught a whiff of smug superiority drifting off the guy with all the subtlety of a rank fart in a closed elevator. Who the hell did he think he was? The King of England?
I'd been coming to Brew & Bean every morning for a year. At the outset, I happened to find the hole-in-the-wall coffee place by accident. I'd needed a shot of caffeine between meetings and zipped in for a quick fix.
That's when I met Willow.
Tall, long-haired brunette with sparkling hazel eyes, and warmth hidden beneath all that sharp wit.
What can I say? I was intrigued.
What happened then became the most pleasurable part of my established routine.
Same table, same order, same barista who gave me endless grief about my lack of imagination.
Ordinarily, I took my coffee to go and I was out the door within fifteen minutes. But today, I lingered.
First, it was her parents, then this guy.
It was like watching a train wreck I couldn’t help rubber-necking.
Willow Monroe was a whirlwind personified—all loopy curls and impulsive honesty and questionable foam art—and I'd spent the past year pretending I didn't notice the way her laugh transformed the entire shop. Pretending our daily sparring matches weren't the highlight of my morning. Pretending I didn't time my arrival specifically to catch her shift.
Pathetic, Hayes. Truly pathetic.
Now as I watched Devon treat her as a charity case, every protective instinct I'd buried under decades of emotional discipline roared to life.
"You seem good, though. Comfortable." Devon's voice dripped with condescension. "I'm sure it takes a lot of skill to do what you do."
The subtext: Your little job is menial and I feel superior to you in every way.
Willow's smile became brittle. "You'd be surprised."
Devon paid, left a dollar tip that looked more paltry than generous, and turned toward the door. Then he paused, pivoting back with that particular look I'd seen on a hundred privileged faces—the one that preceded a verbal knife disguised as casual curiosity.
"Hey, are you seeing anyone these days? I always wondered if you'd find?—"
"Yes." Willow's voice cut through his question with startling force. "Actually, I am."
Devon's eyebrows rose. Vanessa looked mildly interested. I stiffened, holding my breath for her answer.
"Really? That's great! Anyone I'd know?"
Willow's gaze darted around the shop—past the empty tables, the decorative plants, the espresso machine—and landed directly on me. I watched her face cycle through panic, calculation, and desperate resolve in the span of two heartbeats.
Oh no. Don't do it.
"Callum," she blurted. "Callum Hayes. We're together."
She did it.
Every head in the vicinity swiveled toward me. Devon's skepticism was palpable. Vanessa's polite interest sharpened into genuine curiosity. Behind the counter, her coworker, the one named Mika had frozenmid-wipe, her rag suspended over the espresso machine, mouth hanging open. And Willow—Willow looked as though she wanted the floor to swallow her whole but was too stubborn to stop talking.
"The architect?" Devon's tone dripped with disbelief. "The guy whose name is on that giant building in the center of town?"
I should have stayed in my seat. Should have let her flounder through this catastrophic lie and watched the whole thing collapse under its own absurdity. Our daily interactions consisted of bickering over foam art and trading verbal jabs about life choices.
But it was the panic flitting across Willow's face that prompted me to stand, cross the shop and slide my arm around Willow's waist with the purposefully casual possession that suggested we'd done this a thousand times.
