She smiled faintly. “Thank you for the mocha, Drew.”
“Anytime,” I said. “You know, platonically.”
She rolled her eyes again, but the corners of her mouth lifted. “You really are impossible.”
“Still sounds like a compliment,” I said automatically, because I didn’t trust myself to say anything else.
Then I turned, heading down the stairs before I could do something stupid like go back and kiss her again.
Because I knew exactly how it would go: she’d melt into me for one perfect, impossible moment, and then she’d pull away, walls slamming back up, and tonight she’d be on that road to Seattle with a polite thank-you text and radio silence for the next six months.
No. This was safer.
This was the kind of gesture that said,I care about you but I won’t ruin you.
It was friendship. Platonic. Entirely selfless.
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and muttered to myself, “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”
Riley’s peppermint drawing on the cup lid stared up at me from the extra drink I’d ordered.
And for all my good intentions, I still couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere between the first sip and goodbye, I’d just made the biggest mistake of the season.
I didn’t make it three steps off the last stair before my feet changed their mind and turned me toward Bean There, Done That. The morning had sharpened into one of those bright, brittle Reckless River days with the sky so clean it almost hurt to look at it, and the sun flashing on drifts like ground glass. The town was deep in cleanup mode until next weekend, with vendors folding canvas, kids hopscotching between piles the plows had left, someone dragging a twelve-foot nutcracker across Main like it owed them money.
The bell over Riley’s door jingled when I walked in, and the shop swallowed me whole—warm air, espresso haze, vinyl crackle from the back corner. Fleetwood Mac drifted off an old record player. The place smelled like cinnamon and toasted coconut and the faint citrus of whatever hand soap Riley buys by the gallon. Mismatched mugs lined the shelves like a friendly crowd.
Riley clocked me the way a hawk clocks movement. One glance, and she slid an order cup down the counter.
“Well hey there, Mr. Not-At-All-In-His-Feelings,” she said, smirking. A dusting of cocoa marked one cheekbone like festive camouflage. “Back again? Running a caffeine marathon or avoidance campaign?”
“Both,” I said. “Don’t judge me.”
“I already judged you the second you walked in with that face.” She tipped her chin toward the register.
“I think I’m too hard for sweet drinks at the moment.”
“So your usual instead of the amazing mocha I made you?”
I chuckled and nodded. “Please.”
She began the ritual: grinder’s burr-song and the click of the machine. She could talk over it, too, which she did.
“So, how’d the delivery go? Did she hurl the mocha at your head or just stab you with a candy cane?”
“Neither,” I said. “She said thanks.”
Riley raised a brow. “And?”
“And I said it was platonic.”
Her laugh came out like a bark. “You told MelanieSausera peppermint mocha was aplatonicgesture?”
“I panicked.”
“You’re adorable when you panic. Stupid, but adorable.”
“I’m aware.”
