"Sit down." She points at my chair. Yes, my chair. "Now tell me all about that handsome foreign prince you married in secret last weekend. Or better yet, is it a vampire? Please, let it be a vampire."
I try to get mad at her probing, but I don't manage it. I get it. Jazz and I, we're not exactly the type of gals who drive around in cars worth more than a nice family home. We're used-lot, compact cars kinda gals.
And I like it that way.
My chair is the one in the corner by the window, and by the time I've taken off my jacket and sat down in it, Jazz is already coming around the counter with two of her apricot croissants on a plate and a coffee so delicious it should be illegal.
She sits down across from me and pushes the plate and mug in my direction.
"Talk."
So I do. She already knows I'm working for Agatha Thornwood. Heck, half the town knew even before I moved to Stronghold. News travels faster than light in a small town like Saltford Bay. Especially when it comes to our local billionaire celebrity.
"Agatha can't fit in my car," I say as I take a sip. I groan, not bothering to hide how good it is. "So she insisted I borrow her grandson's to drive her to her appointment."
I pick up the croissant. Jazz is watching me with the particular expression she saves for when she's waiting for me to get to the actual point.
"Her grandson," she says, motioning in a circle with her hands. She's not the patient type.
"He's staying at Stronghold until Agatha is back on her feet."
"You're bunking with Demetrius Thornwood." Jazz's eyes become so comically large, I'm afraid they'll pop out and roll all over the table. She picks up her coffee and takes a sip without breaking her death glare. "You have to be shitting me."
Then her mouth drops open like she's about to go fly hunting like a frog.
"OMG! Is that why you look like you just got laid? Is this what happened? You're doing the dirty mambo with your old flame?"
"Jazz." I shush her, which is a mistake because Jazz never lowers her voice when someone shushes her.
"Well, you have the look of a woman who either got laid or spent the last seventy-two hours wishing she had." She tilts her head. "Which is it?"
"Neither." I break off a piece of croissant with maybe more force than the croissant deserved. Because damned Jazz, she's right. I did spend the last few days thinking about my ex in a completely inappropriate manner. "It's neither, and you need psychiatric help."
"Mm." Jazz reaches over and takes the other croissant off the plate for herself. "So what's with the glow then? Did you finally get to punch his sorry-ass face for dropping you like a dirty potato?"
"What? No, I didn't punch anyone." I scoff, though I'd spent years fantasizing about exactly that. "He's not that bad. He's kind of sweet, actually."
Jazz takes a bite of her apricot croissant like she has a grudge against it, but she doesn't interrupt. Say what you will about my best friend, but she's a great listener.
I put the croissant down.
"It's weird being in the same house as him, for sure," I say. "But you should see how much he dotes on his grandma. He's always checking up on her when he thinks I'm not there. He'sso much like the Dem I remember, it's easy to forget he's some famous billionaire now. I mean, last night we even shared a PB&J. It was...nice."
Jazz is quiet, which from Jazz is a significant event.
"Maddie. Don't do this to yourself."
"I know, but he's not the arrogant asshole I expected him to be," I say, because I'm already in it now, already in the beat I can feel building behind my sternum that has nothing to do with apricot croissants. "Which is worse, honestly. If he'd been exactly as awful as I prepped myself for, it would be easier." I look at the table. "Instead he's annoyingly, inconveniently, not awful."
Jazz is quiet for another moment. Then: "That's better. Keep going. Explain to me how not awful he is."
I look up at her. The bakery hums around us. The mixer in the back, the gentle clatter from the kitchen, the low murmur of the two elderly elves at the table near the door.
"I don't know what I was expecting, really," I start. "We were so young when we were together. It should all be old history, but it just doesn't feel like it." I turn the coffee cup by its handle.
But Jazz and I both know I'm seriously understating what Demetrius and I were to each other. We were more than just high school sweethearts. We were in love, real love. The kind of love that lasts.
Then came summer and college applications and reality caught up to us. I know now that's why Demetrius did what he did.
