Believe it or not, the kitchen is on the other side of the apartment, but sound, I learned, travels through these walls like they're made of drum skins.
And while the grinder is not close to the loudest thing in this apartment (that would be Mason closing a cabinet, which sounds like a gunshot), the noise is persistent, and—I check my phone—damn, it's 7:48 A.M. on a Saturday.
I close my eyes. Press my face into the pillow. Count to ten. Doesn't help at all.
Fine, I was going to open the shop early-ish anyway. Get a head start on some arrangements before Ben and Harper's couples shower this afternoon.
I get up and put on socks first. The thick ones with the foxes on them, then my sweater with the cute little fox embroidered on the chest (I didn't buy them as a set, they just somehow found each other), because it iscold. Which is weird, considering I set the thermostat to sixty-seven last night. And the night before. And every single night for the last five days. But every morning,it's magically set to sixty-three. I haven't caught the Phantom of the Thermostat yet, but my suspect list is only three names long.
I head out to the hallway and follow the smell of butter and coffee to the kitchen.
Three mugs are already on the counter. Big ones. I open the upper cabinet and dig out mine.
"Morning," Arthur says, turning back.
He's at the stove in sweatpants and a t-shirt so thin I can see his skin underneath, flipping pancakes.
"You're cooking," I say.
"Made the batter last night." He slides a plate across the counter. Two pancakes, lopsided, syrup already pooling. "Forethought. Domestic competence. You're welcome."
He leans over and drops his voice. "Between us, I didn't want Mason anywhere near the stove this morning."
"I can hear you," Mason says from the hallway.
Damn, alpha hearing always impresses me.
"I know," Arthur says cheerfully.
Mason comes in. Henley, work pants, sleeves rolled revealing forearms the size of my calves. He glances at the sink, spots a spoon and a plate sitting there, and stops. Stares at them. Rolls his sleeves up another inch and starts washing them like they owe him money.
Knox walks in with his laptop under one arm. He sets it on the table, opens it, and starts typing.
"Morning," he says, not looking up.
"Morning." I sit down and take a bite.Mmmm."You put cinnamon in this," I say to Arthur.
"And vanilla." He grins.
I take another bite. They're genuinely, surprisingly good.
I get up and head for the shelf above the coffee station. My tea shelf. I'm feeling oolong this morning—I bought a tin of it a while back.
I pick it up. It's light. Too light.
Then I open it.
"Okay," I say. "Who's been drinking my tea?"
Arthur's spatula stops mid-flip. Mason's scrubbing intensifies. Knox's typing gets very deliberate.
"It's half gone, guys. This is forty dollars a box."
Arthur's ears go pink. "That's—huh. That's a lot for tea."
"It's high-quality oolong, Arthur." I stare at him, one hand on my hip. "Do you know anything about this?"
He scratches the back of his neck. "First off, I want to say I didn't know what oolong was. I thought it was, like, regular tea." He's doing the thing where he talks faster when he's cornered. "I was going to ask you about it, actually—"
