“Jesus Christ,” I said immediately. “This tastes awful.”
“It’s black coffee.”
“It tastes like battery acid.”
“You drink tequila straight.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
I pointed at her cup seriously. “This feels personal.”
That finally got a laugh out of her.
Small.
Quick.
But real.
And fuck if that sound didn’t do something weird to my chest.
Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
ROWAN
He was still sitting there.
Like he had nowhere else to be.
Which was ridiculous, because Mason Reed always looked like he had somewhere better to be.
I watched him sip my coffee like it had personally insulted him.
“You’re making a face,” I said.
“It’s not coffee. It’s punishment.”
“Then stop drinking it.”
He didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
Instead he leaned back in the chair like my entire morning routine was now part of his schedule.
That shouldn’t have felt normal.
But it did.
Too quickly.
Outside, rain kept tapping the glass. The café was slowly filling upnow—students dragging themselves into Saturday productivity like it was optional suffering.
I should’ve asked him to leave.
