“A big one,” Maddox confirms, leaning his hip against the counter. He plates the sandwiches, the golden bread glistening.“On his back. A broken circle with flames around it. And an ‘M’ in the middle.”
The image hits me with the force of a physical blow. A brand. A permanent, painful mark he’s etched onto his skin because of me. My throat tightens, and the tea suddenly tastes like ash. I set the mug down, my hand trembling slightly. “I really fucked him up, didn’t I?”
Maddox’s expression softens. He pushes a plate toward me, but I can’t even look at the food. He rounds the counter, his movements quiet and sure, and then he pulls me into a hug. I go willingly, melting against the solid wall of his chest. His arms wrap around me, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head, and I breathe in his scent. It’s familiar, warm, but there’s something else there too. Something that makes my heart ache.
“You kind of smell like Liam,” I murmur into his shirt, the words muffled by the fabric.
He huffs a small laugh. “Ran out of shampoo this morning. Used his. Hope you don’t mind.”
I shake my head, my face still buried against him. I don’t mind at all. It’s just another reminder of how intertwined our lives are, how impossible it is to separate one piece from another. He feels me tremble, and he pulls back just enough to look at me. His thumbs gently wipe at the dampness on my cheeks, tears I hadn’t even realized were falling.
“Hey,” he says, his voice soft. “You know how Liam is. He’s all in, one hundred percent, with everything he does. He’s just hurt, Mills. He’ll come around. He always does.”
I nod, wanting to believe him. I do believe him. But it doesn’t make the present any less painful.
He sighs, his gaze dropping for a second before meeting mine again. “I have to tell you something,” he says, his tone shifting. “And I don’t want you to freak out.”
My stomach clenches. “What?”
“Liam was with Jessica last night. At my place.”
The hot stone in my chest returns, heavier this time, searing. “I don’t care,” I say, the words coming out too fast, too sharp. I turn away from him, focusing on the sandwich he made. “It’s his life. He can do what he wants.”
But I do care. Of course, I do. The thought of him with someone else, with bright, bubbly Jessica, makes me feel sick. It’s a tangled mess of jealousy, possessiveness, and a sharp, piercing guilt. This is getting complicated. So much more complicated than a simple one-night stand with a stranger.
Maddox’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, a grounding weight. “Everything will be okay,” he says, his voice a low promise.
We eat our breakfast in a strange sort of silence, punctuated by the soft purring of Nimbus as he rubs against our legs, begging for scraps. I break off a tiny piece of cheese for him, which he accepts with a sniff.
After we eat, I get ready for work, pulling on my jeans and a simple black T-shirt for The Cocoa Nook. Maddox helps me onto the back of his motorcycle, his hands firm on my waist as I swing my leg over the seat. He’s a little taller than Liam, and I have to stretch my arms a little farther to wrap them around his waist. The engine rumbles to life beneath us, a powerful vibration that I feel in my bones.
He drives me to the café, the morning air cool against my face. I rest my cheek against his back, the leather of his jacket smooth against my skin. When we pull up out front, he kills the engine and helps me off.
“You need to be patient with him,” he says, his voice serious. “With Liam.”
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss to my cheek. “Have a good day, Mills.”
I watch him ride away, the bike disappearing down the street, before I turn to unlock the door to the café. I’m the one opening up today, so I flip on the lights and start the coffee machines—the familiar hiss and gurgle a comforting sound. I wipe down the counters and arrange the pastries in the display case, my movements automatic.
Ten minutes later, the bell above the door jingles, and Maren walks in, carrying two large cardboard boxes that smell heavenly. “Morning, love,” she says, setting the boxes on the counter. “I’ve brought treats.”
She opens the lids, revealing a feast. There are scones flecked with lavender, their tops crusted with sparkling sugar; glossy chocolate croissants that are still warm to the touch; and little apple turnovers oozing with cinnamon-scented filling. My stomach rumbles in protest.
“They look amazing, Maren,” I tell her, my mouth watering.
She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you seen my son yet?” she asks, her tone carefully casual.
My heart sinks a little. “He was with Maddox this morning,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Oh,” she says. She busies herself with arranging the pastries in the case. “Well, if he comes by, tell him to give me a call, will you? I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Of course,” I promise.
She stays for another few minutes, chatting about the rebuilding efforts and the new shipment of coffee beans, but her mind is clearly elsewhere. When she leaves, the café feels quiet again, the scent of sugar and coffee hanging in the air.
I’m working behind the counter, restocking napkins and wiping down the espresso machine, when the bell above the door jingles again. I don’t look up at first, assuming it’s an early customer. “I’ll be right with you,” I call out.
