“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I straightened instinctively, even though she couldn’t see that either. “I can sit behind a counter.”
“And the crutches?”
“I’ll lean them against the counter and look intimidating.”
She laughed. “Do you need a ride?”
“I do,” I admitted. “I don’t think Raphael is going to love the idea of me working either.”
“Ah. There it is.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
I rolled my eyes, smiling.
“Can you pick me up?”
“Of course I can. I’ll swing by in half an hour.”
I had just ended the call when I felt it. That shift in the air. The awareness of being overheard.
I turned slightly in my chair.
Raphael stood in the doorway to the kitchen, already in dress pants and a crisp button-down, expression carefully neutral in the way that meant it absolutely was not.
“You were called in,” he said.
Not a question.
“Yes.”
“At the coffee shop.”
“Yes.”
“You are on crutches.”
“Also, yes.”
He stepped fully into the room. “You’re not going.”
I snorted softly. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Belle,” he warned.
“It’s a short shift.”
“You are injured.” His arms crossed over his broad chest in a way that absolutely did not excite me.
“I can sit.”
“You said you would be behind the register.”
“Yeah, sitting behind the register.”
