Page 19 of No Good Fight

My heart knows.

Some traitorous, attention-starved part of me knows.

I look up anyway because apparently I enjoy suffering.

Ryder steps inside wearing a dark Henley, worn jeans, and a baseball cap pulled low over damp hair like he showered fast and didn’t bother doing anything else. There’s a faint scrape near his jaw that wasn’t there before last night, and his eyes look tired in a way that makes me think he didn’t sleep much.

Or at all.

The barista looks up and smiles. “Hey, Ryder. Usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Of course the barista knows him.

Of course Ryder Cook has a usual, and he probably carries old ladies across crosswalks in his spare time while rescuing emotionally fragile raccoons from trees.

His gaze moves through the shop with casual efficiency.

The door.

The counter.

The front windows.

Me.

He pauses like finding me here is a surprise.

It is a good pause. Very believable. Oscar-worthy, honestly.

I don’t buy it for a second.

“Alex,” he says, walking toward my table.

“Ryder.” I lean back in my chair and lift one eyebrow. “Wow. What are the odds?”

His mouth twitches. “Of coffee existing downtown?”

“Of you existing near my coffee at this time in the day, when I’m imbibing said coffee.”

“I was in the area.”

“Were you?”

He pulls out the chair across from me but doesn’t sit until I give the tiniest nod. I hate that I notice the asking. Hate more that I like it.

“Are we doing this?” he asks.

“Doing what?”

“The thing where you pretend I’m suspicious for buying coffee. And I pretend that I don’t understand your suspicion.”

“You are suspicious.”

“I’m a firefighter. We run on caffeine and bad decisions. That doesn’t make me suspicious”

“That explains so much about you.”