Wasn’t it?
“The table sounds perfect,” I said instead.
I took the seat with the best view of the door and immediately started refolding my napkin into increasingly elaborate shapes. I told myself I was simply keeping my hands busy. I was not, under any circumstances, staring at the entrance every five seconds.
At exactly three o’clock, the bell chimed again.
My breath caught anyway.
Rion filled the doorway.
Even trying to blend in, he did not.
The wide-brimmed hat was making a heroic but ultimately doomed effort to disguise the shape of his horns. His trench coat strained across his shoulders like it had been designed for a very large human and was now being asked to exceed its contractual obligations. The effect should have been absurd.
It was a little absurd. It was also, somehow, still devastating.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling too broadly.
Our eyes met across the room. His expression remained composed, but I saw the faint softening at the corners of his eyes that I had learned to recognize as his version of a smile. I lifted a hand in what was probably an embarrassingly enthusiastic wave, and he made his way towards me.
Watching him cross the café was both nerve-racking and weirdly fascinating. He moved with incredible care, turning slightly to navigate between tightly packed tables and display stands. His coat brushed a shelf of bestsellers, and several books tipped precariously. He caught them before they could fall, setting them back into place with hands that looked built for lifting stone and yet moved with astonishing delicacy.
An elderly woman browsing nearby peered up at him over her glasses as he straightened. “Thank you, young man,” she said after he steadied the books she had nearly knocked over in surprise.
“My pleasure,” he replied, dipping his head with grave politeness.
My heart did something ridiculous.
By the time he reached the table, the chair let out a quiet creak of protest as he sat. His knee bumped the underside of the table hard enough to rattle my cup.
“I apologize,” he said. “For the conspicuousness.”
“You are fine,” I said quickly. “I mean that. You look…” I hesitated, because honesty and self-preservation rarely cooperated when I was around him. “You look like you tried.”
His eyes crinkled.
“You are a terrible liar, Clara Bellweather.”
My full name in his voice did deeply unhelpful things to my composure.
“I prefer selectively honest,” I said. “Can I get you something?”
“Coffee. Black.”
Of course.
Marjorie appeared with his cup, set it down, and vanished again with the air of someone who planned to interrogate me later. He adjusted his hat, and the fabric shifted just enough for me to catch the faint, unmistakable curve beneath it.
My pulse stumbled.
“You don’t have to wear that if it’s uncomfortable,” I said, lowering my voice.
“Humans tend to notice horns.”
“That’s fair,” I said. “Although I still think the coat is attracting more attention than the horns would.”
A low rumble escaped him. It took me a second to realize it was laughter.
