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“Coffee is the nectar of the gods. I have an addiction, so I can appreciate the need to be prepared when you wake up.”
Opening the cabinet, I reach for two mugs. None are matching, which never bothered me until Harbor Westcott was standing in my apartment. His house is so beautiful that I’m sure their dishes match. They probably have formal sets for special occasions and daily plates for everyday use as well.
I grab my favorite ones since that’s all I have to fall back on. “I’ll actually be up studying tonight, so I needed caffeine. Would you like a cup?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Staring at the options, I splurge and go for the good stuff—pumpkin spice—and hold the box up. “Are you good with this?”
“I’ve never had it, so it will be a first.”
I put the beans in the grinder and then into the machine. “I don’t have the fancy syrups or anything, but I do have sugar and creamer.”
“I’ll take mine however you take yours.”
“Are you always so agreeable?”
He chuckles. “Guess it depends on who you ask.”
While the coffee percolates, I lean against the counter facing him. “Name a person who would disagree with my assertion.”
“Bailey Bensimone.” Not one hesitation. No waffling about who to choose. Not even shy about throwing a name out there. He just did it when most wouldn’t.
The thing is, I’ve heard of her. I suddenly feel uneasy. “She goes to the university.”
His eyes latch onto mine. “Do you know her?”
“No. Just her name.”
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You were just being honest.” I come closer, standing with only a sink and a small bar between us. “But you have me curious. Why would Bailey Bensimone call you disagreeable?”
I hate that he clams up, but he does, turning his back to me and walking to look out the front window. “It’s a nice street. Quiet.” When he turns back, he asks, “Where’s your roommate?”
“Working. She’s a server and closes on Sundays.”
The water stops filling the full coffee pot, drawing my attention to it. Pouring powdered creamer and a dash of sugar into each mug, I stir, and then present the blue mug to him. He takes one look and smiles. “You’re a Yankees fan?”
“It’s my dad’s favorite team, so I grew up watching the games with him. I asked for tickets for my fourteenth birthday.” I sip, letting the warm liquid meld with the good memories. “My dad said I could pick out anything I wanted from the gift store.”
Both his hands wrap around the mug like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever held on to. “You chose this mug?”
“I remember flipping over price tags on the jerseys and T-shirts. They cost way too much. I couldn’t let my dad spend that. He’d worked late for months to pay for the game tickets and the night at the motel. I really didn’t want a pennant or a foam finger, so I chose the mug.”
“If you could have had anything without worries over money, what would you have picked?”
“A jersey.” Approval reflects in his eyes. I add, “But I love that mug.”
He takes a sip of coffee, staring at the mug even once lowered. “Not sure I can agree on the team, but it’s a good mug. A New York classic.”
I move into the living room and set my mug down, one I got when my dad forgot it. He got it from Dell’s Creamery when Dell was trying to butter my dad up to cut the bill for fixing his delivery truck.
“So,” I say, sitting on the couch. “Did you just happen to go to the gas station tonight or—?”
“Or did I show up hoping to see you?” He comes to sit next to me. Setting his mug on the table next to mine, Harbor then rests back and spreads his arms wide across the back of the couch. He looks me in the eyes and replies, “The truth?”
“Always.”
