Millie winked. “Teasing, dear.”
Fifi dragged me to the counter, muttering under her breath.
And I had to admit I was already enjoying Buttercup Lake a lot more than I planned.
Chapter Thirteen
Fifi
To my great and eternal relief, Millie had errands.
Errands, of all things. Like her caffeine-fueled matchmaking radar hadn’t just locked in on Ben like a guided missile. But apparently she had somewhere to be…a quilting supply run, she said, although I was willing to bet it involved a detour to the bookstore and some casual eavesdropping at the diner. The woman got around.
Regardless, she bustled off in a flurry of lavender and pearls, leaving Ben and me alone in the cozy glow ofButtercup Java.
The place was warm and smelled like cinnamon, espresso, and a hint of vanilla. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar played overhead. I cradled my mug of honey oat milk latte like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
We’d snagged a window booth, tucked into the corner, away from the eyes of the occasional familiar face. Ben sat across from me, quiet as ever, sipping his black coffee like it was something to endure instead of enjoy.
I couldn’t help it, so I exhaled dramatically.
Ben glanced up, one eyebrow quirking in a silent question.
“I love Millie,” I said, lowering my voice in case she was hiding behind a scone display, “but she is alot.”
He gave a small huff, amused, maybe? Hard to tell with him, and I took another sip.
“She’s harmless,” he said.
“Harmless?” I repeated, my eyes widening. “Millie heads up a covert matchmaking society disguised as a book club. She has spreadsheets. Color coding. She keeps actualfileson people.”
“She didn’t seem that threatening.”
“That’s the trap,” I said solemnly. “She looks like she bakes you cookies and then next thing you know, she’s giving a full dossier of your ‘romantic potential’ to your mother during brunch.”
Ben leaned back slightly, a ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“Oh, you havenoidea.”
I took a long sip of my latte and looked at him over the rim.
He was watching me again.
Not staring. Not in a creepy way. Just… watching.
His blue eyes were steady and focused on me like I was a riddle he was trying to figure out, or maybe something that didn’t make sense in his carefully constructed world.
I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He didn’t look away. “Nothing.”
“No, no, you’ve got that look. That internal monologue face.”
His mouth quirked. “I don’t have an internal monologue face.”
“Youabsolutelydo,” I said, setting my cup down. “And I know I’m not supposed to ask because, guest/host boundaries or whatever, but I’m gonna risk it.”
He gave a little tilt of his head, curiosity sharpening.
