Page 76 of Famous for a Living

That plus the company of the evening makes my blood pump faster. Makes me feel alive.

Still, that may have been too much. Am I too much?

But there Zaiah is, nothing but a bemused smile on his lips as he watches me.

But I suppose I’m not the only one to show off a new part of me tonight. It’s surprising seeing him like this too. Clad in that hideous green uniform? Constantly. But tonight he wears a plaid button-up beneath a sage-green sweater. His brown hair doesn’t hide under that stiff, wide-brimmed hat but sweeps to the side, the front-most section rolling like a wave.

A mountain man, yes, that part of him is inescapable, but one who looks like he could be picked up by a scout for L.L. Bean so they could take shots of him holding stacks of wood while staring off into the distance. A mountain model.

A new thought forms and my stomach churns. Is this what he’s doing too? Dressing up like all the other guys in this place and going on the hunt?

I clear my throat and press on. “But really, Zaiah. Wolves. Wolves.”

“I’d worry this will keep you inside, but then we have those pesky rattlers to deal with. So . . . it looks like you’re pretty stuck.”

The barista sets a coffee mug on the counter, and Zaiah picks it up and holds it out, handle forward.

I take the mug. The handle is hot, hot enough my eyes can’t help flickering down to Zaiah’s large, callused hands that took hold of the mug itself without flinching. Making sure I didn’t take the mug by the hot end, making sure my fingers didn’t get burned. Quietly, subtly considering me.

Stop, Cat.

If this isn’t next-level overthinking, nothing is.

The perfect, foamy hot sip of flat white slides over my tongue and rolls down my throat. My insides shudder like an old car finally oiled. This has been too long.

Zaiah seems to pick up on this, because he nods to the drink. “Not the same as Peggy’s Dollar House roast, eh?”

“Not the same species.”

He laughs, and my fingers tingle, desperate to stretch toward the phone in my back pocket. Snap a picture of him like this. Capture the way he stands there, crow’s-feet around his eyes, layered sweater, rolled-up sleeves, low laugh. Not for others but just for me. A way to remember the fleeting moment.

But of course I can’t.

For so many reasons, I can’t.

I tuck my free hand in my pocket, push it deep down in case it tries to betray me.

“So. I just discovered you lied.” I feel my phone buzz inside my pocket and ignore it.

If I was expecting him to be confused about what I was referring to, I’d be wrong. Because the second the words come out of my mouth, he replies, “I did. But it was a well-meant lie.”

I raise a brow. “Would that stand up in court?”

“Without question.”

Mina—whose male companion is now standing a few inches off her, trying his darndest to sit in the chair beside her she’s protecting with her life—looks around him and waves toward us. She points to the seats, and I nod as though to say, “Yes, coming right over.”

Neither of us budge.

A girl reaches around me, picks up her coffee.

I move out of the way. “Somehow I expected you to be the George Washington type. The scout’s honor, never-tell-a-lie-even-if-it-causes-me-to-be-run-over-by-a-train kind of a person.”

His lips twitch. “Seems you come with a lot of preconceived notions.”

I hold back a laugh. “I think we both know that statement goes both ways.”

Somebody else steps in for their drink, and he slides it over without looking at him.