Page 7
No tightness around the jaw, no flicker of impatience when the crossword man launched into what appeared to be a lengthy story. Just warmth and attention and the kind of ease that came from someone who genuinely enjoyed people. Not a trace of anger anywhere in that face.
Yet.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ben had been charming once too, had smiled at strangers and held doors and made me feel like the only person in any room. The monster hadn’t announced itself. It had arrived wearing cologne and carrying flowers.
Still, I couldn’t make myself leave.
Inside, Drift straightened and turned toward the espresso machine. Mid-reach for a cup, he paused and glanced toward the door. He eyed me standing on the other side of the glass like some feral cat deciding whether the Open sign was an invitation or a trap.
A smile, softer than the one he’d given the crossword man, tugged at Drift’s mouth. Not performative. Not salesman-bright. Just…glad. Like me showing up was the quiet highlight of an already good morning, and that gladness hit me with a warmth I shouldn’t want so desperately.
After a deep breath, I pushed through the door.
The scents of coffee, butter, and cinnamon folded around me immediately, so thick I could almost taste the air. Beneath the café sounds—the gurgle of the espresso machine, the soft indie music drifting from hidden speakers, and the murmur of easy conversation—my own heartbeat pounded loud enough to drown everything else out.
“You came.” Drift leaned forward, elbows on the counter, as if there was nothing in the world he wanted more than this conversation.
“Hey.” My voice cracked, and I hated it immediately. I cleared my throat and tried again, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Sorry. Didn’t want to interrupt your regulars.”
The smile widened. “Regulars don’t interrupt. They’re the whole point.” He set a mug under the espresso machine, his hands moving through the routine like he could do it blind. “I’m glad you made it, Phineas with a P-H.”
“My survival instincts are apparently on vacation.”
“Survival instincts?” Drift raised an eyebrow, a crooked grin already forming. “It’s croissants, not skydiving.”
“You clearly underestimate my ability to turn pastry into a life-threatening event.” Why was talking to this man so easy? Every word that left my mouth felt like it had been locked in a vault for months and was now stumbling into daylight, blinking and disoriented but desperate to stay.
“Well then, you’re in luck.” Drift untied his apron and draped it over a hook behind the register. “Because I’m about to let you into my kitchen, and if you survive, you get to eat the evidence.”
“Wait…you want me to help make them?”
“I seem to remember promising you fresh croissants. You up for a behind-the-scenes lesson in pastry, or should I just deliver the goods?”
Someone smart would’ve taken the bag and run. I was clearly not a smart person. “You actually trust me with pastries? Bold move for someone who’s met me exactly once.”
A flicker of mischief danced in Drift’s eyes, mirrored in the slight curve of his mouth. “I’m an excellent judge of character. But I’ll stay on the safe side and do the ambitious parts myself. You just have to watch and maybe help with the eating.”
The warmth in his voice curled around me like a playful caress. I tried to focus on the countertop, tracing the small dings and scratches, but Drift’s attention kept pulling me back.
I’m in so much trouble.
“Okay. I’m game.” You really are a monumental idiot. “But I might need actual food this morning if you want me to be able to focus.”
Every time the guy smiled, warmth spilled softly through my bones. “Deal.” He rounded the edge of the counter and nodded toward a swinging door. “Follow me.”
Resistance had become a joke at this point. I trailed behind, disturbed at how my mind started plotting ways to see Drift beyond today.
You are not coming back.
I was going to keep telling myself that until I actually believed it.
The kitchen was small, warm, and flour-dusted. A stainless-steel counter ran along one wall, and the oven radiated heat that I felt immediately against my bare arms. Mixing bowls in varying sizes sat stacked near a wooden cutting board, and a tray of risen dough waited beside a container of softened butter.
Best of all, the room wasn’t pristine.
Drift crossed to the workstation, his hips brushing mine as he moved past.
“Sorry,” he said without looking, already pulling a tray of golden croissants from the small oven. “It’s tight back here. And I’m a big guy.”
