“I’m not really in the contrabandanythingbusiness.”
A curious look comes over his face, like he’s put down shudders over a stupid flirty joke. A line of worry forms between his eyebrows. Simon’s voice rings out in my mind.He got into some shady things. Is this the natural moment to ask? Do I even want to know?
“Oh, no, of course not,” I say, clearing my throat. “I was just—”
“You’re fine,” he says. My eyes are drawn to his hands, fidgeting with the pockets of his jeans. Once again, Zander is wearing a basic, black T-shirt. “Should we head in?”
I follow him into Dam Good Coffee’s second location in town, the one attached to the library. Seems as natural a place as any for two authors to hang out. Zander holds the door open for me. Maybe it’s dumb, maybe the bar is on the floor, but I’ve been with three men—one from town and two when I was in university—and none of them held the door for me.
Though I prefer to write at the B&B, Dam Good Coffee has more typical writing vibes. It’s all low, acoustic music playing, with the comforting scent of coffee beans wafting through the air, but painted pink.
“What’s your order?” Zander asks. “I’ve got it this time.”
I let him know my specific summer coffee order: an iced vanilla oat milk latte. He parrots this to Kinslee, who has taken my order every time I’ve come in here over the last few months, then orders an assortment of pastries. While Zander pays, she eyes me appreciatively, shooting me the universal woman-to-womanhe’s cutelook.
Within minutes, the two of us migrate to the back of the shop. Not because it’s busy. I assume we’re both at this vantage point to people watch, as any good writer should be. I pop my coffee from the tray and take a sip. I let out a sigh that colours Zander’s cheeks. He opens the box of pastries and I scan the options. There’s a mixture of croissants, Danishes, and butter tarts. I slip a strawberry Danish from the box and lay it down on a napkin.
“So, you may have noticed I came laptop-less,” I say.
I sink my teeth into my pastry. It crumbles down my chin and leaves custard residue on my upper lip. I lick it away and watch Zander’s throat bob. His fingers freeze around the butter tart he’s pulling from the box.
“I noticed,” he says with a smirk. “I am similarly topless. Ran out the door and forgot. Ididgrab a notebook from Gran’s when I dropped Lucy off, though.”
I smack my lips and place my Danish down on its napkin, then duck under the table to my bag. I pull out the bright pink notebook I bring with me everywhere.
“That’s blinding,” Zander says.
I giggle. “It is. That’s exactly why I had to have it.”
“Be a cupcake in a world of muffins.” He reads the blue text on the front. I’m almost certain this notebook is for girls in middle school, but I don’t care. “That’s you.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling the heat creep up my neck.
“I mean that as a compliment, I hope you know. If anyone was ever a cupcake, it’s you. You’re so bright and fluffy. You’re like sunshine and I’m the boring muffin.” He pauses, bites his lip. “Bit of a mixed metaphor, I know. I’m supposed to be good at words, aren’t I?”
“The writing thing and the speaking thing are two completely different things. I know what you mean.”
He grins behind his butter tart.Oh no. I think I like him a whole lot.
“So, what’re you working on?” he asks, brushing crumbs from his jawline.
“In here?” I ask, flipping through the pages. “Everything. Everything goes in here because I take it with me everywhere.”
“Ah, I have my phone for that.”
“Mr. Fancypants with his modern-day writing tools here.”
“You’re a purist, are you? Coffee and a little notebook? Got a typewriter, too?”
“Would you be surprised if I said yes?” He laughs, his eyes crinkle. I feel everything in my stomach flip. “It’s for show. But it is a typewriter.”
“It’s pink, isn’t it?”
“No. It’s a vintage Royal in green.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Are you sureyou’renot Mr. Fancypants?”
“That’s Mrs. Fancypants to you.”
