“We need to go,” I eventually said.
“You’ll have to get off me first.”
“Not sure I can. I think my bones are jelly.”
“Fuck, I love you, woman.” He laughed and began standing again. This time, it wasn’t need and instinct; it was a ploy to make me stand up. He knew I wouldn’t let him lift me.
“I love you, too,” I said, as I stood under my own power. “But Vanessa’s totally going to kill me.”
“You’ll make it.” He rinsed the sex off himself, but bit his lip when he looked at me, letting his gaze rake over my body.
I took my turn for a final rinse. “I won’t if you keep looking at me like that.”
He reached past me and turned off the water. “Like what?”
“Like you’re considering round two.”
“I’m always considering round two.” He stepped out and tossed me a towel. “But I’ve got a meeting.”
We dressed in the kind of coordinated chaos that came from sharing a bathroom every day. We’d gone halfsies on the three-bedroom place with the big yard and porch we’d talked about on the plane. I’d used the money from the egg, and he’d used part of the ten percent I insisted he take. It was close to Tristan’s, and as much as Garrett had pretended to be indifferent, I knew he’d fallen in love with the place at first sight.
I’d unpacked the kitchen first, and the spare rooms were a maze of cardboard boxes. Actually, I’dwantedto unpack my books first, but Garrett insisted I wait until he was able to install a proper set of bookshelves for me. So even mybookswere waiting for his shoulder to heal, but I refused to let him skip any step in the process.
My parents had been over for dinner a couple of times, and they loved Garrett. We hadn’t told them all the nitty-gritty details about our European adventure in August, and definitely not about how the gunshot wound had happened. Although my mother particularly adored Garrett’s story about locking me in the hotel room while he scouted the Tower of London.
She was as much a die-hard romance reader as I was, and she’d thought it sounded romantic. Separated from the moment by a couple of months, I couldalmostagree with her.
I drove us the ten minutes to my parking spot behind The Velvet Bean, where we parked next to Arthur’s SUV.
“Well shit.” Garrett did the awkward job of undoing his seatbelt with his right hand, since he was still using a sling every day. He was supposed to wear it during the day for another month, and he did without too much complaint, which I’d learned was the truest sign he was still hurting. Garrett didn’t comply with things he didn’t think were necessary. He’d ditched the pain meds on day six. The sling was day sixty-something and counting. “Looks like they beat us here.”
“That’s your fault,” I said with a grin.
“You insisted on the shower.”
“I didn’t insist anything. You were hogging the shower when I got here!”
“I didn’t ask you to join me, sunshine.”
“Yourfaceasked me to join you.”
He got out of the car and circled to my side, opening my door. He leaned down and gave me a quick peck on the nose. “My face doesn’t ask for things.”
“Your face asks forsomany things.”
The Velvet Bean was humming when we came through the back door. The kitchen smelled of fresh bread and pastries, while the front was full of coffee and chatter. The morning light hadn’t reached the front windows, since the sun was still waking up, but the bright café lights fended off the morning twilight.
“Morning, boss.” Vanessa glanced up as she finished pouring a swan. “Your men are in the back corner.”
“They’re notmymen.”
“They kind of are.” She flicked her gaze toward Garrett, who was already heading to the table where Arthur, Merlin, and Lance sat with their laptops and coffee.
I tied on my apron and let the morning settle around me. The café had a rhythm to it—the hiss of steam, the low hum of conversation, the clink of ceramic on wood—and after two and a half years, my body knew the steps without thinking. Check the pastry case. Top off the sugar caddies. Wipe down the counter where the milk pitchers dripped.
Toby was holding his own. He’d been with me for two months now, and he’d stopped asking where things were about three weeks in. Having the extra staff meant I wasn’t pulling doubles anymore, which meant I slept more, which meant I was a better person to be around. Vanessa had pointed this out, and I’d thrown a sugar packet at her.
On my way past the photo wall, I tapped the newest addition for luck: Didi and Marcel Dubois in Marseille from 1943. She was young and fierce, posing in a dimly lit kitchen with the man whose family had quietly waited for the egg to return to them. Next to it hung the original sepia portrait of Didi in her velvet jacket that had given the café its name.
