Coffee Talk
Flashback - Three Years Earlier
The bell above the door to the coffee house chimes, interrupting my flawless rendition of “No Scrubs” by TLC. I set the bowl of brownie batter I’m mixing aside and head to the front of the store, where I find Cruz with his hip resting against the counter as he stares down at the phone in his hand. Dark curls fall forward over his furrowed brow. His knuckles are white from the hold he has on the phone.
Alarm bells ring out in my head. We’ve gotten close over the past month and I find him perched against my counter at least once a day, without fail, when he’s not on the road. We talk while he sips his drink or eats his sticky bun. Our conversations have covered countless topics—some fun, others more serious.
I pause in front of him, taking him in for a moment. He’s wearing a pair of black joggers with a fitted Bandits warm-up shirt with a black hat. It’s his uniform for practice. His hair isn’t wet so he must be heading to the stadium.
Not wanting to startle him, I gently lay my hand on his arm. When he looks up from his phone, there’s pain etched into his features. I see the same stormy look moving behind his chocolate eyes that he had on when he told me how he lost his brother earlier this year. His gaze flicks to where my hand is on his arm and back to my face.
“What’s wrong?” I stroke my thumb over his forearm, back and forth over his pulse point.
Brushing it off, he slides the phone into his pocket. “Just some news. It’s not what I was hoping for,” he says, downplaying it and retreating from whatever has him looking heartbroken.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?” I try again, hoping that he’ll give me a glimpse of what’s got him so twisted up so that I can help.
His hand comes down on mine, squeezing my finger for a beat. “Do you have any new treats back there that need some taste testing? That would help.”
“I was just making a batch of s’mores brownies, but they aren’t done yet. Can I interest you in a sticky bun instead? They’re not new, but I know they’re your favorite.” Maybe some sugar will help him open up.
“You can never go wrong with sticky buns. They remind me of the golfeados my mom makes for my dad’s birthday every year.” He gives me a tight smile, but I know it’s fake. There are no dimples framing his straight white teeth. When he’s truly happy, those little divots shine brighter than any star in the sky. I want to ask him again what’s really going on, but he’s shut down, so I settle for feeding him.
“I’m not sure how someone with such a sweet tooth can be in as good of shape as you are. The rest of us mere mortals look at treats and end up absorbing the calories through osmosis. I think you get a new muscle every time I see you. Are you carrying a hammer around that I’m not aware of,Thor?” Moving to the opposite side of the counter, I grab a plate for his pastry before I slide it to him.
Cruz arches an eyebrow and smirks at me before his eyes sweep over me from head to toe. “I’m not sure you’re ready to know about my hammer. But, does that mean you’ve been checking out my muscles?”
My cheeks flame with heat, the way they always seem to when he’s around. His eyes burn a trail across my body as they slowly rove over me. Before I can speak, he grabs my hand from where it’s frozen on the plate.
“For the record, Delilah, your body is perfect. Treats and calories be damned. Anyone who tells you differently needs their ass kicked and their eyes checked.”
Noted.
Cruz looks down at his hand and drags it back to his side, shaking his head. “Delilah, I’m sorry. I hope that didn’t make you uncomfortable. You’re my friend. My gorgeous friend but, I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s been a weird day.”
“It’s fine. It was nice to hear. You just caught me off guard.” Brad’s been so busy with the acquisition he’s working on that I could walk into the room without a stitch of clothes on and I’m not sure he would even look up from his email long enough to notice. “Tell me about your weird day. Let me help. That’s what friends do, right?”
“Friends.” He echoes before lifting his hat and pushing his hands through his curls. When he replaces his hat, I see the same pained look in his eyes again.
“It’s my brother. When he—” Turning away, he looks out the window before blowing out a deep breath and continuing on. “There’s a lot we don’t know about the night of Jarrett’s accident. The detective in Miami is not having any luck. They aren’t closing the case, but there’s not much more they can do without a new lead. He suggested I work with a private investigator. He gave me the name of one that used to work in the precinct and moved to St. Louis.” His face twists like it’s physically painful for him to say the words out loud.
“Oh, Cruz.” Going to him, I wrap my arms around his waist, hoping to give him some solace. He stiffens for a minute before giving in to what I’m offering. His massive arms drape around my shoulders, pulling me into him and bringing my head against the hard plane of his chest.
“The detective was trying to work with the club on getting players and staff to talk, but without criminal charges, they’re out of options. He cautioned me that I may never get the answers I’m looking for.” The pain in his voice makes my heart split open for him. I can’t begin to understand how it felt for him to lose his brother and best friend so unexpectedly. But not knowing how or why just amplifies everything.
“What are you going to do?” Without moving from his embrace, I crane my neck to look up at him. I’m relieved to find him looking somewhat less tense.
“I don’t know. My parents would flip out if they knew I was digging into his death. They want to ‘mourn their son in peace.’ Those were my dad’s exact words. When I brought up hiring a P.I., they were concerned about how it would impact me emotionally to keep looking for answers when the police weren’t able to find any.”
“Can you let it go and move on without making sure you’ve tried everything to get answers?” Cruz has told me enough about his family to know that he doesn’t take going against his fathers wishes lightly.
He cares a great deal about his approval, but the bond he shared with his brother was unparalleled. Even though they played the same sport at a high level, and were both fiercely competitive, they only ever drove each other to be better. They were each other’s biggest fans.
His nostrils flare, looking tenser than I have ever seen him. “No. He deserves to have peace and we do, too. And for me that means finding out what happened.”
“Then I think you have your answer.” The door dings behind me. Cruz drops his arms and steps back, putting space between us. I look over my shoulder and see Brad standing just inside the door.
“Hey, Brad.” His greeting is flat. “Can I get this to-go? I’m going to eat it at the stadium,” he asks, his tone softening when he turns his attention back to me.
