Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss the memory of how Rux had looked at him. Not past him, not through him, butathim. Like every word Sam spoke deserved complete attention, even when Sam was explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino for what felt like the thousandth time that week. Nobody looked at him like that.
“Maybe he does that with everyone,” Sam reasoned. “Some people are just intense…and a little awkward.”
Basil jumped off the counter with a thump that clearly communicated his skepticism.
Sam retrieved his laptop and settled on the sofa. He should write. His vampires were still circling their oblivious café worker, debating how to approach him without scaring him off. The parallel wasn’t lost on Sam - except in his story, destiny existed. Heart bonds. Fated mates. Magic that made love inevitable.
Real life didn’t work that way. Real life was awkward conversations about weather and flooring, and six coffeesconsumed in a panic. Phone numbers scribbled on receipts by people who probably just wanted someone to show them around Dinetell.
Sam opened a new document instead of his novel and typedShould I call him?He liked lists – seeing things written down helped him make sense of his thoughts. But when he thought about what to list…his brain couldn’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t call.
His phone sat on the cushion beside him. The receipt lay on the coffee table where he’d set it, Rux’s name visible from his seat.
“I’ll think about it,” Sam told the empty room as he deleted the document. Grabbing his phone, he very carefully added Rux’s number to his contacts – checking that he’d got the details right twice - just in case.
/~/~/~/~/
A different flavor of handsomeness showed up Tuesday morning - a sophisticated one. Sam noticed him immediately. It was hard not to whenthe man walked in looking like he’d stepped off the cover ofFinancial Times. Dark suit, precisely tailored. Diamond earrings, catching the light. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from owning things – plural.
“Black coffee, please.” His voice was smooth, cultured. “Medium.”
“Sure thing.” Sam rang it up. “That’ll be two-fifty.”
The man handed him a fifty-dollar note.
Sam blinked at it. He didn’t see many of them in town. “I’ll get your change…”
“Keep it.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The change. Keep it.” The man smiled, and Sam’s brain stuttered because that smile transformed an already handsome face into something almost unfair.
But then his brain kicked in. “That’s - no. No, I can’t. That’s a forty-seven dollar tip for a two-fifty coffee.”
“Is there a law against generous tipping?”
“There should be when it’s this ridiculous.” Sam focused on getting the till open and counting out the notes. “Here. Forty-seven dollars.”
The man looked at the money like Sam had offered him pocket lint. “I don’t need it.”
“Well, I don’t need a day’s wages for making you coffee.” Sam stretched his arm over the counter, waving the notes in the man’s direction.
They stared at each other. The man’s eyes were dark brown, intense in a way that made Sam’s pulse skip despite his frustration.
“Fine.” The man took the money and tucked it back in his wallet with obvious reluctance. “But the service was excellent.”
“I haven’t even made the coffee yet.”
“I’m sure your cup-filling technique will be exceptional.”
Was he being mocked? Sam couldn’t tell. The man’s expression remainedserious, but something in those dark eyes suggested amusement.
Sam made the coffee - regular, normal, definitely not worth forty-seven dollars - and handed it over.
“Thank you...” The man glanced at Sam’s name tag. “Sam.”
“You’re welcome.”
