“I did. After three attempts Silas forbid me to ever bring another unroasted bean in the door. That week he called someone to redesign his shop so I could have my own space.”
A dreamy look passes over her face when I mention Silas. “That sounds like him. He wants the people he loves to be happy.”
Yeah. He does.
“He also loves my coffee. I have a special blend I use just for the house. It’s his favorite.”
She gestures toward the machine. “Is that what this one is? Silas’ blend?”
My throat tightens. “No,” I rasp. I should stop there. “This one is yours.”
Her breath hitches. “I… have my own blend?”
I swallow down a lemon-sized knot in my throat. Before I can find my voice, she steps closer, asking too many questions for my rattled brain to answer.
“You made me a blend? Is it the one I’ve always been drinking? When?”
I take a deep breath. “The day at the clinic, I didn’t know where to go, so I went to Nayda’s Café.”
She places her hand on my bicep. It’s the first time she’s touched me. Just her hand on my arm. My body burns with recognition like it's been waiting for exactly this. The pressure of her skin against mine is a fucking truth serum.
I tell her everything. About how I drank so many brown sugar lattes my eyes bulged. How I came immediately to my shop and started experimenting with flavor profiles. How after six trials I finally found the right one.
And then I wait. Because I’ve just admitted that I’ve been gone for her from the beginning and that I rejected her anyway.
But instead of anger, she smirks. “We need to do a taste test. Compare your version to Nayda’s.” Of all the things she could have said.
I hesitate, trying to figure out a way to turn her down without being rude. I'm tired of being rude to her. She deserves better than me. Someone who isn't held together with duct tape. Someone who didn't spend months unable to get out of bed. She deserves someone who was whole before she got here.
I don't want to hurt her anymore. But I don't know how to stop.
“I can see your mind working,” she teases, one hip cocked against the table. “You want to say no. But you can’t. Silas said you have to take me out on one proper courting date per week. Might as well start with coffee.”
Nayda’s is exactly how I remember it. Plants hang from the ceiling in trailing vines, sit in mismatched ceramic pots on every shelf, and crowd the windows in leafy clusters that filter the afternoon lightinto something green and soft. The place smells like espresso and wet soil.
We stand in line while Lark holds the insulated thermos containing the latte I made for her.
“Are you nervous?” she asks. “What if I like Nayda’s better?”
I smirk. “You won’t.”
The line creeps forward. When we finally reach the register, Lark beams at the girl behind the counter.
“One brown sugar latte, please.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “What do you want?”
“The same.”
The girl smiles politely. “Names?”
We tell her and she scribbles them onto the cups and slides them down the counter. Lark spots an open table across the room and starts toward it, weaving through the crowd of students and office workers.
We’re halfway there when it happens.
“Lark?”
She stops. A tall alpha stands a few feet away, holding a paper cup and looking pleasantly surprised. His scent is sweet at first, then tart. He’s interested. Too fucking interested.
“Remember me?” he asks.
