Page 65 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

Cassian was slumped on the sofa when I entered, his head tipped back against the cushions, one hand wrapped around a cup holder. The moment he spotted me, he jolted upright and hurried over.

“Here’s your—”

“It took you an hour to get a drink?” I cut him off without slowing down, heading straight for my desk.

He trailed after me, scrambling to explain himself. “There was a huge line at the café. Then, when I got back, there was nowhere to park. I had to drive around, leave the car three blocks away, and walk all the way here. By the time I finally made it upstairs, you were already in a meeting, so I had no choice but to wait.”

I dropped into my chair and woke my computer, refusing to spare him a glance. “My God, do you ever stop with the excuses?” I held out my hand impatiently. “Just give me my tea and leave.”

Nothing touched my palm.

I waited.

Still nothing.

I glanced over and found him staring at me, utterly bewildered, the drink frozen halfway between us.

“Coffee,” he murmured, staring at the cup.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop mumbling?”

He cleared his throat, the sound strained with nerves. “You asked for coffee.”

My brows drew together. “Are you fucking with me right now?”

His head shook in a frantic, almost panicked denial.

“I asked for tea, Cassian. Tea. Not coffee. How did you possibly hear coffee when I said tea? Too much coffee is bad for me, and you watched me finish a cup already. So why would you bring me another one?” I gestured toward the offending cup. “Do you actively want my health to deteriorate? Is that it?”

“What? No! Of course not!” Panic climbed into his voice as he looked down at the coffee, then back at me, his brow furrowing helplessly. “I—I made a mistake. I’ll get your tea right now.”

He turned toward the door, only to halt after two steps and whirl back around, his face stricken.

“How do you take it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you telling me that after two years of marriage, you don’t know how I take my tea?”

His eyes widened in horror. “I do know—”

“I’ll have ginger tea. Thank you.” I picked up my phone, dismissing him with a glance. “Can you manage that, or should I write down the instructions?”

He nodded so quickly I almost expected whiplash. “Yes. Ginger tea. Ten minutes.”

He practically bolted from the room.

Three hours later, I was leaning against Naija’s desk when the stairwell door creaked open and Cassian stumbled through it. He was drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead, his shirt clinging to his back.

I gave him an appreciative whistle. “You look like you’ve had quite a day.”

He stopped in front of me, chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “Here’s your—”

I glanced pointedly at my wrist. “Three hours.” I raised an eyebrow. “What’s the excuse this time?”

He took a deep, steadying breath, his eyes locking onto the glass of water on Naija’s desk. He snatched it without asking and emptied it in one desperate gulp before slamming the glass back down and dragging a hand through his soaked hair.

“After I left, I found out my car had been towed. I hailed a cab back to the café, only to find the entire staff in meltdown because one employee was cheating on another… with the manager. So I went to a different café. Another massive line. Finally got my order, and just as I was about to leave, I got a call from the towing company. The police had found illegal substances in the car they’d towed and wanted me at the station immediately.”

He dragged a hand over his face, looking thoroughly exhausted. “Turns out, they had the wrong car. Same make, same model, same color. The license plate had been entered incorrectly, and somehow my car got flagged instead. So I had to go down to the station, explain the whole thing.”