He watched me with his bottomless gray eyes, expectant.
I couldn’t think of any words, so I lifted my drink and promptly burnt my tongue. “Shit,” I hissed and reached for the dribble on my lip.
“Oh, careful. Here.” He quickly grabbed a napkin and extended it. The table was so tiny, and he was so big he all but pressed it to my lips.
“Thank you.”
“I should have warned you; they tend to make things extra hot here.”
I looked around at the quaint shop’s deep brown walls, overstuffed furniture, locally sourced abstract art. The barista was doing a poor job of pretending not to stare at us. I caught a coy grin on her lips.
“Do you live around here?” I took a stab in the not-so-very dark.
“Am I that obvious?” He quietly laughed.
“Yes, Bray. Everything you do is obvious.”
His face fell. “Sorry, I thought it would be good to go somewhere familiar, given the circumstances.”
“Yes, and the issue with that is peopleknowyou here—like that barista who’s watching us like we’re on a date—and now they’ve seen you withmewhen I’m supposed to be undercover.”
His eyes widened the same way they had in the park when I pointed out his error in lurking in sunglasses and a hat. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m sorry.” He looked over his shoulder like he wanted to hide under the table. Despite yet another faux pas, his fluster came off charming. “Then maybe we should?”
“Should what?”
“Act like we’re on a date.”
The idea struck me as so absurd, I laughed out loud, which I realized a second too late only played into his ridiculous plan. “What will that fix?”
He glanced at the counter where the barista was still watching. He lowered his voice and spoke through a smile. “That’s Amber.” He nodded at her. “She and her wife own this place, and they’ve taken a, let’s say,keen interestin my social life. That’s why she’s staring at us. And that’s why she put a heart in your drink,” he said like it just dawned on him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’d rather she thinks I’m here on a date than here with a CI.”
I glanced at the woman behind the counter. She was petite with, appropriately, amber-colored curls piled on her head. She wiped down the espresso machine with one eye still on us.
“Does she know what you do?”
“More or less.”
“Of course she does.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you suck at this!” I blurted in a harsh whisper.
He flinched, looking hurt.
“Sorry.”
I glanced around the shop at the other patrons, noting there were at least two other couples dressed similarly to me and Bray: T-shirts, yoga pants, hoodies. A Saturday morning coffee date was apparently a viable con.
“Give me your hat,” I demanded and held out my hand.
“My hat?”
“Yes. We can at least hope Amber forgets what I look like.”
He removed it and ran a hand through his mashed hair, leaving it ruffled and all sorts of perfectly messy. There was also the bicep popping out to say hello when he lifted his arm.
His hat sat low around my head, being at least a size too big. His scent lingered on it, a hint of scalp and citrusy shampoo. Itook care to pull my hair forward to further shield my face. I had to look up from under the brim to see him.
