Jack leans casually against his sleek black motorcycle like he’s posing for a magazine spread, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that Formula One drivers are, apparently, extremely fit. His dark hair is windblown from the ride, doing that annoyingly perfect thing where it looks messy but somehow better than if he’d tried.
As I park my beat-up Honda in a spot two spaces away, he looks up, spots my car, and immediately puts his phone away in his pocket. The smile that spreads across his face is so convincing that for a second I almost believe he’s actually happy to see me.
I step out of my car, suddenly self-conscious in a way I’m absolutely not used to feeling. Jack’s eyes track me as I walk toward him.
“You look beautiful,” he says, pushing off from his motorcycle.
“Thanks.” I smooth down my dress. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“This old thing?” He gestures dramatically to his perfectly fitted t-shirt with a grin. “Ready for our big debut?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, his palm warm against mine. The gesture is casual, natural, but my heart does a little skip that I try to ignore.
The coffee shop is busy, the comfortable murmur of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine creating familiar background noise. The moment we walk through thedoor together though, there’s a subtle but definite shift in the atmosphere.
A few heads turn our way immediately. Conversations pause mid-sentence, people forgetting what they were saying. It’s not full celebrity hysteria—Dark River is too small-town cool for that kind of obvious reaction—but there’s definitely an awareness that ripples through the room like a wave. Jack Midnight is here. Jack Midnight is with someone. Jack Midnight is holding someone’s hand.
Jack seems completely immune to the attention, his posture relaxed and confident as we make our way across the room toward the counter. Of course he is. He’s used to racing in front of hundreds of thousands of people, being photographed wherever he goes, signing autographs for screaming fans at every race.
Behind the register, the barista’s eyes widen noticeably as she recognizes him. She’s young, maybe college age, with perfectly-winged eyeliner and a nose ring. Her gaze shifts quickly between Jack and me.
“Welcome to Perks,” she says, her smile brightening considerably as she focuses primarily on Jack, her voice taking on that slight breathiness people get when they’re excited. “What can I get for you today?”
“I’ll have a double espresso,” Jack says easily, then looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“Iced vanilla latte, please,” I say, noting the way her eyes barely flick to me before returning to Jack.
The barista nods. “Anything else? We just took some fresh cinnamon rolls out of the oven a few minutes ago.” She says this directly to Jack, a hint of eager hopefulness in her voice, like she’s personally hoping he’ll be impressed with their pastry selection.
My stomach growls quietly in response. The fresh-baked smell wafting from the pastry case isn’t helping my hunger situation.
“Those look amazing,” I say, eyeing the warm rolls topped with melted cream cheese icing that’s still dripping down the sides.
“Then we’ll take two,” Jack says, glancing at me before turning back to the barista with a polite smile. “One for me and one for my girlfriend.”
The barista’s eager smile falters visibly at the word “girlfriend,” her entire expression dimming like someone turned down her brightness setting. “Coming right up,” she says, her tone shifting back to purely professional as she turns to prepare our drinks.
As the espresso machine hisses and gurgles loudly, I open my purse and take out my wallet. Jack’s eyes immediately drop to my hands, his brows lifting slightly in surprise.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Paying for my half,” I say matter-of-factly, extracting a ten-dollar bill from my wallet. It seems only fair, even if this is technically a fake date.
“Absolutely not,” he looks amused. “I askedyouto coffee, I’m paying. Plus didn’t you tell me last night you were counting your tips to see if you’d make rent?”
“That was an exaggeration,” I protest.
He grins, gently pushing my hand back. “Look, Reyes, just let me buy you coffee. Consider it payment for having to pretend to like me in public.”
“In that case I should be charging way more,” I say, but I’m fighting a smile.
“Probably true,” he laughs.
I hesitate. On one hand, I’m perfectly capable of paying for myself. On the other hand, the watch on his wrist probably costs more than I make in a year.
“Fine,” I concede, slipping the bill back into my wallet. “But I’m buying next time.”
