Surprise first.
Then caution.
Then that maddening composure she wears like armor.
She looks back down at her notes.
Dismisses me.
Or pretends to.
I should leave.
Instead, I walk to the counter, order my coffee without hearing a word the barista says, and take the cup with a hand that feels too tight around the cardboard sleeve.
Then I go sit at the table right beside hers.
Close enough to smell her.
Vanilla, maybe. Coconut. Clean skin warmed by the sun. Something soft and feminine and wholly Stella that slides under my ribs and makes me want things I have no business wanting.
I set my laptop down with more force than necessary.
She keeps writing for a beat too long.
Then, without looking at me, she says, “You cannot be serious.”
I open my laptop like I’m here for any reason other than self-inflicted torture.
“What?” I say. “It’s a coffee shop.”
That makes her glance at me.
Those eyes are dark and direct and infinitely more dangerous than they have any right to be in broad daylight.
“There are other tables.”
“So?”
Her brows rise the tiniest bit.
I’ve wanted that brow arched up at me in challenge, in irritation, in pleasure. Wanted to kiss the sarcasm right off her mouth and listen to what sound she’d make if I finally got her under me and didn’t stop until she was shaking.
I drag my gaze back to the laptop screen before it can linger on her lips too long.
It lingers anyway.
Full, pink, slightly parted now in disbelief.
The kind of mouth a man could ruin himself on.
She clicks her pen once.
Sharp.
Impatient.
“Did you hit your head at practice?”
