I invite him to join me at the counter, and he sets the donut mug down in front of me.
“Thanks.” I reach out for the cup. “That was thoughtful of you.” I take a tentative sip, bracing myself for the coffee to be bitter and overly strong. It’s still caffeine, and I don’t want to be ungrateful. But instead of an assault on my senses, this coffee is good. So good. Smooth, and not bitter in the least. There’s a slight hint of sweetness … and some spice. Cinnamon? No. Cardamom. Maybe both.
“Wow,” I say. “You made this? Where did you get the beans?”
“They’re from a small roaster in Jerusalem,” Rafe says. “My mom imports them for her restaurant in Toronto. She brings me some every time she visits. I’m addicted.”
“So good.” I close my eyes and inhale the aroma, forgetting all about the salmon. I wonder if I could get my hands on these beans for the diner …
“I put in some cream, but I didn’t know about sugar,” Rafe says.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “You could put me out of a job with this stuff.”
“I don’t know about that”—Rafe grins bashfully—“but my mother is a chef, and my father was a night owl. Learning how to make good coffee was a prioritized skill in our family.” He fiddles with a pen that’s sitting on the counter.
“Your dadwasa night owl?” I ask.
“He passed away a little over ten years ago,” Rafe says. “Sudden heart attack.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say. And then I just blurt out, “I lost my mom when I was a teenager, too.”
Awkward. And here I was, ten seconds ago, just drinking coffee and shooting the breeze at my breakfast bar with Rafe Barzilay, like that was a normal turn of events in my life.
“I’m so sorry, Kenna.” Rafe looks at me with so much unfiltered kindness that I can feel the tears springing to my eyes. How many times have I dated guys whose eyes glazed over if and when I mention losing my mom. It’s the “check please” moment of a hundred failed first dates. “That must have been awful for you,” he says.
“Well, it was tough, but I was lucky I had my uncles. They really stepped up.” I notice the time on the microwave clock. “Oh, wow. We should really get going! It’s about twenty minutes to get to the Arbors,” I say, looking around for the car keys. “Is your mom ready to go?”
“She’s not coming.” Rafe strides to the sink and takes the lid off his empty coffee cup. He gives the cup a quick rinse and sets it on my dish rack. “She said she’s too tired. Jet lag. She wants to sleep in and spend the day with my daughter, Orly.”
Thank God I no longer have to deal with the mom who hates “me.”
“You don’t have to come with me,” I say. “I’m sure you have better things to do. Maybe spend some time with your family?” But even as I say this, I feel the wiry tendrils of panic vining in. I don’t want to go to the spa alone. As much as I hate to admit it, it would be nice to have some backup. If Rafe does the talking, it will be much easier to impersonate Lorelei.
“My neck’s actually been pretty stiff.” Rafe rolls his shoulders, then rotates his neck slowly, eyes half-closed. I can’t take my eyes off his Adam’s apple. His skin is so smooth, and he smells almost … buttery? Like a croissant on a picnic blanket in a field of—
He is staring at me, staring at him.
“Kenna,” he interrupts my reverie, “I’d ask if you minded my coming, but the fact of the matter is, I’m coming whether you want me to or not.”
“You are? Why?” I ask.
“Because I want to come.” He smiles dazzlingly at me. It’s not fair. It’s blinding. That smile is a lethal weapon. But I’ve seen it before, in the movies. This isn’t a genuine smile, a smile for me.
“You know what, Rafe? It isn’t necessary.” I scrabble around in the bag I’ve packed for the day, looking for the huge sunglasses that Lorelei suggested I wear and pop them on. They are big and round and perfect for hiding behind. “I’ll be fine. I don’t need a babysitter.”
I do need a babysitter. A super-hot, six-foot-three bronzed god of a superhero babysitter. But I don’t want to admit it.
“I disagree.” Rafe shakes his head. “I think it’s entirely necessary. There’s no way you’re passing for Lorelei. I need to make sure you don’t crash and burn. I don’t want the press descending on us like locusts.” His charming smile is gone now, replaced with a look of grim determination. “Either we both go, or nobody goes.”
I weigh my options, playing out different scenarios while looking around for the car keys.
“I have the car keys,” Rafe says, somehow sensing what I was looking for. He reaches in his pocket and produces a shiny fob emblazoned with the Porsche logo. “We keep them all at the main house in case the staff needs to move them.”
“Thanks!” I reach for the keys. “I’ve never driven a Porsche before. Should be fun!”
Rafe pivots, holding the keys out of my reach. “Both of us, or neither of us,” he repeats, staring me down.
“Fine,” I say, holding out my hand for the key. “But I’m driving.”
