I walked to the end of the block, where a Starbucks had smartly cashed in on some real estate that’d become available during the summer. If there were two professions that could single-handedly keep the coffee industry afloat, it was filmmakers and cops—and this wasn’t a TV neighborhood.
I pulled the door open and awhooshof central heat greeted me. The scent of ground coffee beans and warmed paninis hung heavy in the air. A year ago, I probably wouldn’t have recognized the smoky female voice singing on the shop speakers, but Sebastian was such an enthusiast of jazz, blues, and the early years of R&B that I could now place Etta James almost immediately. “Something’s Got a Hold on Me,” which Sebastian sang around the apartment on a fairly routine basis.
“Hi, Calvin,” called Camille, the always perky barista, waving enthusiastically from behind one of the two registers.
“Camille,” I said in greeting. I placed Quinn’s order, and when she asked if I wanted my usual latte, I opted instead for a house brew. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a step up from the hours-old precinct coffee that could have doubled for car oil, but despite his insatiable sweet tooth, my ornery curmudgeon preferred his coffee dark and bitter, and Etta had dropped Sebastian to the forefront of my thoughts.
I paid, moved to the pickup counter, and took my phone out. I pulled up the last text conversation I’d had with Sebastian yesterday:Fred Astaire cuute?
That question had stemmed from a thirty-minute argument between him and Max, which had ended in a stalemate, of which I was then requested to break. Now, if Sebastian had asked me whether I thought Humphrey Bogart or James Stewart was attractive—yes, absolutely—but not Astaire. However, since I knew where Sebastian stood on this particular subject, and because I hadn’t wanted to sleep on the couch last night, I’d agreed. From the flurry of texts I received afterward from Max, Sebastian had preened for the rest of the afternoon and Max insisted it was unfair to have me, the fiancé, break the tie.
A typical day when you’re in love with Sebastian Snow.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard as I considered a message. I didn’t have anything special to say, and simply considered sending a quick:Hey, baby, just thinking of you.I could practically hear Sebastian’s response to that, in his deep, dry voice that was always a touch sardonic.
He’d try to hold back a smile, but he loves when I call himbaby, so that fight wouldn’t last long. And he’d say something to the effect of “I’m clearly the deadweight in this relationship.” Then, because Sebastian was always on, always thinking, always trying to figure something out, to such an extent that he could be utterly unaware of what was going on around him at times, the conversation would pull a one-eighty and we’d be discussing the finer points of the Singer sewing machine for the next twenty minutes.
Point A to Point Q.
I settled on the text,What’re you working on right now?
“Winter?”
I locked my phone and looked up. CSU detective and Sebastian’s ex, Neil Millett, was tucking his wallet into his back pocket. “Millett,” I said cordially. “What brings you down this way?”
“A scene a few blocks from here.” He reluctantly approached the pickup counter, slid his hands into his trouser pockets, and asked, “How’re you?” Millett had never been one for small talk, so his stiff attempt, whether authentic or more likely because he didn’t want to pretend he hadn’t seen me for however many minutes he waited for his coffee, caught me by surprise.
“I’m okay,” I answered. “How about yourself?”
Millett’s gaze wandered, lingered on the barista steaming milk for an order. “Living,” he eventually said, and the honesty of his reply, the emotional gravity of that single word—I understood it all too well.
Living and being alive were two very different states of existence.
“So you’re engaged.” Millett colored a little before adding, more gently, “Sebastian texted me last week.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“He tried to tell me about a maroon tree or something,” Millett continued, “but he kept typingmoron, which I kept pointing out, and then he got frustrated and all-caps told me to fuck off.”
I shook my head and said around a growing smile, “That sounds about right.”
Millett looked at the barista again. “I don’t know why he won’t use voice-to-text.”
“He doesn’t trust it.”
Millett snorted. “He’s such an asshole.”
“Sometimes,” I said with a chuckle.
“I won’t tell him you said that.” Millett collected his cup when the barista called outNeil!and slapped it down on the countertop. He stared at the spelling of his name for a moment, frowned, then started to turn toward the door without another word.
“Neil?” I echoed.
Millett stumbled a step, looked at me, and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“I never properly thanked you.”
“For what?” he asked cautiously.
