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His partial smile is back, but this time it looks more like a smirk. He’s one of those men who can make any facial expression—a grimace, a sneer, a smirk—seem like it belongs on a magazine cover. I find it vaguely irritating and impossible to ignore, which is also annoying.
“Is that how you impress reviewers?” Again, he points at where Meagan loads pastries into the glass case. Rows of croissants and blueberry scones. I inhale the buttery scent but find it mingling with something else—his damn rosemary mint shampoo. Did he use the body wash too?
“Wh-what?”
“Berating customers? I mean, why not come right out and throat punch them for good measure?” His delivery is so serious, his eyes barely hinting at amusement, that I’m not sure if he’s deeply offended by me or giving me a hard time.
I don’t feel like justifying my pre-coffee mood to him.
“I only do that when I know they can take it. Didn’t want to mess up the mousse in your hair, so I went easy.” Equally deadpan.
His eyes flash with challenge, and he nods slowly before a faint tick at the corner of his mouth lets me know he approves of my humor. “Fair enough.”
He looks back at the chess board.
“But you like the coffee.” I’m telling him, rather than asking, my hand still quivering in my lap because I really want to open a chess game with the French Defense. It’s a beginner move, but I have some tricks up my sleeve, and it’s one of my favorites.
Before I can control myself, my hand darts out and I move the first pawn. He glances down at it and up at me. Without looking, he moves his black pawn to the expected square.
We face off for a few minutes, each moving pieces quickly because we’ve both clearly played this game enough to know the standard moves. He captures my rook. I take his knight. More pawns sacrificed. Both queens protected.
It doesn’t get interesting for me until halfway through a game, at least when I’m up against someone who knows how to play.
My heart ratchets up a few notches because I see an opening, a way I can lure his queen into a perilous position, and I don’t think he sees it. I’m used to this. I’ve played online a lot, mostly because the people I know don’t play, and the online opponents are programmed to make no mistakes.
He may have just made one. Granted, his moves have surprised me. Each time I thought I had him cornered into doing what I expected, he found a way out and forced me to think on my feet. That rarely happens when I’m up against casual chess players. But now, I think I have him sandwiched between my rook and my king with no way out.
The gentle tinkle of the bell over the door to the café catches my attention for a moment, but that’s not why I take my eye off the board for a second too long.
“Colin, hey man.” My eldest brother Archer’s voice rumbles from the doorway. I feel his sudden presence in the pristine space like a gray cloud moving in front of the sun.
Of course, there had to be a reason the man across from me is here. I’ve been so wrapped up in our silent game of chess that I didn’t bother to introduce myself or wonder more about who he is. Once the game of chess takes over, I find it hard to focus on anything else.
“Arch.” Colin pushes his chair back from the table and leans forward to shake my brother’s hand and clap him on the back in a half hug.
That momentary distraction is all it takes. I move my castle—something I’ve done countless times before—but somehow, I don’t see what this guy sees. The next sound I hear is his deep voice declaring, “Check.”
A jolt of panic hits my chest, and my eyes snap to the board, where he does, in fact, have my king in check. Worse than that, I’ve cooked my own goose by moving my castle, and now there’s no way for me to win this game.
“I see you’ve met my little sister.” I’ve never minded him referring to me this way before because it always felt like an endearment. But right now, it feels demeaning when I’m about to get my ass handed to me by his friend in the one game I know how to play well. Sure doesn’t look that way right now.
“Checkmate,” he says by way of answer. Then he extends his hand. “Colin Hathaway. Visiting chess nut.”
“And astrophysicist,” my brother adds helpfully. My gut hollows and I blink hard. Seriously, I can’t catch a break. Ever.
“Arch, unnecessary info,” Colin grunts.
I shake his hand, keeping my grip firm because I don’t want him to see how much it costs me to bear this defeat. My cheeks heat, and I will the temperature in the room to drop to arctic levels and cool me down. Meeting his eyes, I tell him my name. “PJ. Resident coffee addict.”
“And fixer,” Colin adds. Still no smile.
“Right,” I say. “When there’s something that needs fixing.” Like this whole situation.
And I’m at a loss.
“Pleasure playing with you.” The politeness feels like a kick in the shins. Something to placate a beginner who gave it her best try.
I nod. Then I push my chair back from the table and offer it to my brother. The last three moves play over and over in my head—where I went wrong, where he took an opening I practically handed him. I still can’t believe I didn’t see it.
