Page 7 of The Moment I Knew

“Two drinks,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I expected. I was sure he’d recognize me immediately by my British accent but he didn’t look up. “A Heartbreaker and a Study Breakdown. Oh and a gingerbread loaf.”

He nodded and his hair flopped against his forehead. “Name?”

I hesitated half a beat. “Imogen.”

That did it.

His eyes flicked up, sharp, and landed on my face like he was confirming something he already knew. His jaw tightened again—not as hard as before, but enough that I noticed. He typed my name in without comment.

“Five minutes,” he said, already turning away.

“Wait,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

He stopped. Looked back at me. “What?”

“I—” I swallowed. “I just wanted to say… I’m really sorry about earlier. Again.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

My head jerked back as if he’d hit me. “What do you mean? I meant that.”

He leaned his arms on the counter, a scowl on his face. “I know your kind of people. You give halfhearted apologies and you move on but then you do it all over again without a care in the world. You don’t mean it.”

I tugged self-consciously at my coat, suddenly aware of the people behind me in line and how I was holding everyone up to say sorry to a guy who clearly didn’t want my apology. But I couldn’t let it go.

“You don’t know anything about me.” I didn’t have anything to prove to him, but the fact that he thought he knew me so well after exactly two encounters made me mad. Especially when all I was trying to do was apologize.

He flicked his gaze down briefly, to the front of my coat—where the small silver Parkhurst Prep pin caught the light. When his eyes lifted again, they were colder.

“Trust me,” he said. “I know enough.”

That did it. The embarrassment burned away, replaced by something hot and indignant. “You think because I go to a private school, I don’t care about anyone but myself? Because that’s a pretty big assumption to make after exactly one accident.”

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shrugged, like it wasn’t worth the effort to argue.

“I think,” he said, “that I don’t need to know you to know how this goes.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I repeated.

“And thank heaven for that.”

He turned away before I could say anything else, reaching for two cups behind the counter. The machine hissed loudly, filling the space where my response should’ve been.

I stood there, stunned, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Ainsley tugged me away from the register so the next people in line could order. She mumbled something about the guy being a jerk and to just ignore him, but I barely heard her words as I watched him make our drinks, feeling like my skin was on fire.

I’d apologized. Twice. I hadn’t made excuses or laughed it off or pretended it didn’t matter. I’d stood there and owned it, which was what you were supposed to do when you messed up. That was the rule. Say sorry. Mean it. Move on.

He moved behind the counter with quick, efficient motions, like nothing we’d said mattered at all. Like I hadn’t just stood there and tried to make things right. And that part burned worse than the embarrassment. I could handle being clumsy or awkward or even annoying. I couldn’t handle being dismissed.

I was still stewing over it when he set our drinks down on the counter, movements clipped. I was just reaching for my cup when his voice made me pause. “Careful. They’re hot.”

Any other time, it would have just been a kind warning. From him, it was just daunting.

“I know,” I snapped.

He raised a brow. “Don’t spill it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”