My voice is steady, but inside I’m scrambling, desperate to push this conversation back to safe territory.
He pauses, his eyes searching mine for a beat longer than I’m comfortable with. Then, he nods, slipping back into that calm, composed shell. “Black coffee. No milk. No sugar.”
Of course.
I nod, grabbing a cup and turning to the coffee machine. “Black coffee. Got it.”
I pour the coffee into the cup, the rich, dark liquid swirling as I set it down in front of him. “One black coffee. No milk, no sugar.”
He picks it up, smiling slightly. “Simple.”
“Convenient,” I say flatly. “Well, enjoy.”
I’m already halfway turned toward the register, hoping he’ll take the hint, but his voice stops me cold. “Actually,” he says casually, “I’ll have something sweet too. Cake, maybe.”
I glance back over my shoulder. “Seriously?”
His smile widens. “Your recommendation.”
Of course he wants to drag this out.
I sigh, turning toward the display case. “Matcha chiffon. It’s light, fluffy, a little bitter. Not for everyone.”
His gaze flicks to the cake, then to me. “Good thing I’ve never been afraid of a challenge.”
Cocky bastard.
I grab a plate and cut a slice, setting it down on the counter with more force than necessary. “Enjoy it. Or don’t. Makes no difference to me.”
He takes the plate, but his eyes linger on me, not the cake. Watching. Waiting. I hate that a stupid slice of cake feels like a power move.
“Thanks,” he says, his lips curving into that maddeningsmirk.
I cross my arms, refusing to give him more than a bored expression. “That’ll be £9.20.”
He slides a twenty-pound note across the counter, his eyes never leaving mine. “Keep the change.”
“Generous,” I mutter, putting the change in the Guide dogs for the blind collection pot next to the till.
“Always,” he replies smoothly, taking a sip of his coffee.
For a second, the air between us thickens, heavy with unspoken tension. But I don’t crack. I keep my face calm, unreadable.
“Anything else?” I ask flatly.
His gaze lingers. “Not today.”
He turns toward the door, but just before he steps outside, he glances back over his shoulder.
“I meant it, you know,” he says softly, his voice low and deliberate. “It really is good to see you again.”
Then he’s gone, the bell above the door chiming softly as it swings shut.
The cafe falls quiet, his presence lingering like the scent of dark roast and his cologne, deep, warm, and annoyingly hard to ignore.
I grip the counter, my heart pounding harder than it should. What the hell is his game?
Fortunately, the day doesn’t give me much time to dwell on it. The door swings open again, and a flood of customers pours in. A mix of regulars and students with laptops, already eyeing the best seats.
