No.
Guys don’t squeal.
I catch myself mid-crouch and straighten abruptly, clearing my throat. “I mean. Uh.” I lower my voice. “Strong dog you got there. Very… brown. Does it eat other dogs?”
Words hang in the air.
The old man stares at me.
The sausage dog wags its tail, oblivious to my social death.
“Does it… eat other dogs?” the man repeats slowly.
“For dominance,” I add, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain. “You know. Establishing territory. Very Alpha behavior. For a dog.”
Stop talking, Anita. Stop talking.
The man’s expression suggests he’s reconsidering his choice to live in this building. “His name is Biscuit. He eats kibble.”
“Right. Of course. Kibble. Very sensible. Protein rich. Good for muscle development.” I’m nodding like this is a normal conversation about things.
“You just moved in?” he asks, still eyeing me warily.
“Yes! Yesterday. With my sister. Anita. She’s sleeping right now. Works late at night, you know how it is.”
His eyebrows rise. “Works at night doing what?”
Oh, no. That sounded really bad.
“She’s a graphic artist!” I say quickly. “Digital illustration. Very time-consuming. You know how those artsy people are. I mean—” I lower my voice again, trying to sound more masculine. “Art devotees. Very dedicated to their craft. Lots of late nights. The muse doesn’t keep normal hours, you know? Very temperamental. The muse, not my sister. Though, she can be temperamental too. But in a creative way. Very creative.”
He’s still staring at me.
Biscuit sniffs my boot.
“Well,” I say, backing toward the stairs. “I’d better head to work. First day. Don’t want to be late. Good day to you, sir. And to Biscuit. May he dominate many territories.”
I turn and take the stairs two at a time, my heart hammering.
Once I’m outside on the snowy sidewalk, I lean against the building and exhale.
“Okay. That didn’t go too badly. Good practice.”
The lie sounds hollow even to me, but I’m choosing to believe it.
I straighten my jacket and head toward The Flour House. Jasper told Anita to have Ash meet the team there this morning. Coffee and introductions.
The café appears even more charming in the morning light, the windows glowing warm, the smell of fresh pastries drifting onto the street. I push through the door and immediately scan the space.
The café is busier than yesterday afternoon. There’s a group of older women at a table near the fireplace, laughing over tea. A young couple sharing a croissant by the window. A man in a business suit, typing on a laptop near the?—
My breath catches.
Corner window spot.
No.
Mason Grey sits with his back to the wall, sandy-blond hair catching the morning light, short beard neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a cream-colored cardigan over a white T-shirt, paired with dark jeans, and somehow makes it look effortlessly put together. His golden-brown eyes are focused on his phone, and even from across the room, I spot the concentration in his expression.
