Page 4 of The Comfort Trap

It doesn't work. He doesn't even look back.

Aubrey taps him out from the register, and he's gone, a whirlwind of motion behind the espresso machine. My disappointment fades, replaced by a strange sense of awe.

I love watching him work.

He moves with a fluid grace that disguises the chaos of the coffee shop, the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt highlighting the lean muscle of his forearms as his hands fly between steam wand and portafilter. He's a conductor and the coffee bar is his orchestra, and I’m entirely captivated.

When he catches his lower lip between his teeth, focusing intensely as he drizzles vanilla syrup on the side of what I hope is my cup, my breath hitches. Even when he awkwardly bumps into the milk fridge, muttering a low apology, the endearing flush that creeps up his neck only makes it harder to look away before he goes back to steaming my oat milk with practiced precision.

When he pours, I'm practically praying for what art he'll create in the foam for me. A heart. A smiley face. Maybe his number. I watch him focus, his teeth sinking into his lower lip, the silver ring there catching the light as he maneuvers his arm over the cup with intense concentration. His wrist flicks, and for a second, I see the delicate shape forming. Hope flares in my chest.

He slides the cup onto the counter with a final, decisive motion, the bottom scraping against the worn surface. The lid sits beside it. Then he turns his head slightly, not even looking in my direction, and calls out, "Order up for Ricardo."

He's acting as if I'm not standing two feet away.

I reach for the cup anticipating what he's created for me with the foam, my hand trembling slightly, and the cardboard sleeve feels rough against my palm.

It's a snail.

I look at him, zipping away to make his next order.

A snail.

He crafted an actual, detailed snail with its little shell and two antenna-like lines stretching across the foam. And he's not even waiting for my reaction, not even a glance over his shoulder to see if I'm amused or devastated. He's already moved on, a whirlwind in a black apron, calling out the next order.

The snail sits there on my foam, a tiny, mocking creature with its shell and antennae, and something inside me snaps. I've been turned down before. I've been ignored. But this deliberate, artful insult is something else entirely.

Maybe that's what attraction is. Seeing someone incredible and realizing they're operating on a level you'll never quite reach.

A sudden, violent jolt of adrenaline hits me, flooding my veins with pure heat. My hand moves entirely on its own, diving toward the counter. For a guy who spends his nights practicing smooth pickup lines in his bedroom mirror, plunging my hand back into that plastic jar feels like a high-stakes, maximum-velocity action-movie stunt. My heart slams against my ribs as my fingertips clamp around the crisp, cool paper of the five-dollar bill and yank it back out.

Aubrey's head whips around so fast I'm surprised he doesn't get whiplash. His eyes widen, his jaw dropping as he realizes what I'm doing.

"Wait, what! Ricardo… You can't do that," he mumbles.

I'm as shocked as he is, my pulse roaring in my ears. I am not this guy. I'm the resident diplomat who lets every slight slide, who absorbs rejection with a polite nod. Under any normalcircumstances, I would have stared at that foam snail, swallowed my pride, and used it as a sign to crawl back to my car and try again next week.

But Patrick doesn't inspire normal circumstances.

He completely bypasses my good manners, hotwiring my brain and pushing buttons I didn't even know I possessed. Nobody else can make me lose my cool, but one flat look from him makes me want to burn the whole place down. Today, his little foam snail is the absolute last straw.

"Well, I just did," I say, shoving the bill deep into my pocket.

Across the coffee bar, Patrick doesn't even flinch. He's focused on the espresso machine, his hands moving quickly. "Maybe next time order faster."

"Maybe next time you'll remember my name."

The words are out before I can stop them, vibrating with a newly discovered, terrifying defiance. I don't wait for a reaction. My hand shoots out, grabbing a coffee stirrer from the dispenser with far more force than necessary. I plunge it into the cup, swirling with vicious intent, watching as the delicate foam snail dissolves into a murky brown mess. Oblivion. That's what he wants. That's what he gets.

I snatch the cup, the cardboard being gripped so tightly it crumples and the cap pops off the lip. I don't look back. I march toward the door, each step a deliberate stomp on the polished concrete floor. The bell above the door jingles as I push it open. I try to slam it behind me, to make a statement, but it's one of those fancy soft-close mechanisms. The door glides shut with a disappointing whisper, only to rebound and catch me square in the elbow.

A jolt of pain shoots up my arm.

My hand spasms, and the coffee tilts.

I watch in horror as the cap slips off and brown liquid sloshes over the rim, splattering onto my shoes and pooling on thepavement. My hand clenches around the now-empty cup, the cardboard giving under my grip.

With a grunt of frustration, I hurl it at the trash can by the door. It ricochets off the rim, landing in a sad, crumpled heap on the pavement. Great. Now I'm not only rejected, I'm littering. Sighing, I stoop to retrieve it, stuffing the crushed cup into the bin.