Chapter 8: Borrowed Warmth

POV: Claire Desmond

Chime.

The bell above the door announced our arrival with a cheerful ring. The air inside was a thick, intoxicating blend of freshly ground beans and the buttery sweetness of pastries.

It was a sensory hug, a sudden shift from the cold New York night to a world that felt safe and grounded.

But the peace lasted exactly three seconds.

"Whoa! Look at the boss’s lady!"

The voice cracked like a whip from behind the bar. Sam, the head barista, was grinning ear to ear while polishing a glass with unnecessary vigor.

Several regulars sitting on the window sofas turned in unison, their conversations dying out.

"Damn, she’s stunning!" one of them called out, raising a mug in a mock toast.

Another man, leaning back in a leather jacket while exhaling a cloud of vapor, chimed in with a lazy, knowing smirk.

"Well, well, Gareth... always the quiet ones, aren't they?"

My face felt like it was being held over an open flame. I tucked my head down, pretending to be intensely fascinated by the tiny plastic clips in Alana’s hair.

My fingers twisted together in a knot of sheer, localized awkwardness.

"Stop it," Gareth interjected. His voice dropped an octave into a warning growl that vibrated in the air.

"This is Alana’s teacher. She was just passing by."

"The 'Teacher-Parent' romance trope? That’s straight out of a movie, Boss! I love it!" a guy in the corner shouted, prompted by a chorus of whistles.

"Hush. Watch your mouth. There’s a child present," Gareth snapped, though I noticed the tips of his ears were turning a distinct, betraying shade of crimson.

Laughter erupted across the room. It was the sound of a tight-knit community—loud, messy, and relentlessly teasing.

Gareth turned to me, his expression softening into a silent apology.

"I’m sorry, Claire. They’re regulars. Their mouths don't have brakes."

"It’s... it’s fine, Gareth." I forced a stiff smile, though my lips felt like carved wood.

Gareth pointed toward a secluded corner shielded by a row of tall, leafy ferns. "Let's sit over there. It’s quieter."

I nodded gratefully, following him. Alana held onto my hand as if she expected me to vanish into thin air if she let go.

We reached a circular wooden table, tucked away from the main floor. Gareth lifted Alana effortlessly, tucking her into her seat before pulling out a chair for me.

I sat, carefully arranging the silk of my skirt so it wouldn't snag on the rustic, unfinished grain of the furniture.

Slowly, the cafe returned to its natural hum. The hecklers went back to their laptops, and on a wall-mounted TV, a soccer match played out in silent, flickering motion.

"So, what can I get you?" Gareth asked, his professional composure returning.

I glanced at the chalkboard menu. "A hot cappuccino, please."

"Coming right up."

Gareth offered a faint, fleeting smile before heading to the bar. I saw him lean over the counter, likely giving Sam a final, stern warning that involved a very pointed finger.

I turned my attention to Alana. She was deep in thought, her brow furrowed in a way that was dangerously adorable.

"Wait, Ms. Claire!" She scrambled down from her chair, darting between the tables before disappearing through a door marked Private.

A moment later, the sound of small, hurried footsteps returned.

Alana reappeared, breathless, clutching a large workbook and a cluttered pencil case to her chest. She climbed back into her seat and slammed the book onto the table with a triumphant thud.

"Ms. Claire, help me with my homework?" Her gray eyes blinked rapidly, full of unfiltered hope.

I let out a soft laugh, the tension in my shoulders finally beginning to dissipate.

"That’s cheating, isn't it? If the teacher does the work?"

Alana giggled, pulling out a blunt, well-used pencil.

"You’re a guest right now. So it’s not cheating. It’s... collaboration."

I shook my head, genuinely impressed. "Your vocabulary is something else. Fine, let's see it."

I moved to the empty chair Gareth had occupied, sitting right beside her. We began working on sentence structures, my finger tracing the lines as I guided her hand, making sure she didn't flip her 'b's and 'd's.

"Slow down. Keep it inside the lines."

Alana nodded solemnly. Suddenly, a blast of cold air from the AC vent directly above us hit the back of my neck.

Brrr.

I shivered again. This dress was a disaster for climate-controlled environments. I rubbed my upper arms, trying to generate some friction. Alana didn't notice; she was too busy staring at a blank line on the page.

"Now, write one sentence about your favorite thing," I explained. "Like, 'I like storybooks'. Try to make one yourself."

Alana tapped her chin with the pencil. Her eyes drifted toward the bar, where her father was waiting for the coffee. A mischievous grin spread across her face.

"Ms. Claire... can I write 'I like Daddy'? Does Daddy count as a favorite thing?"

"Haha... oh, sweetie..."

Before I could answer, something heavy and warm landed on my shoulders.

It was thick. It was weighted. And the overwhelming, protective scent of him—cedarwood and toasted espresso—swirled around me instantly.

"I’m not a 'thing', Alana," the baritone voice rumbled right against my ear.

Alana burst into giggles, covering her mouth with her hands.

I turned my head sharply, my heart stopping for a beat. Gareth was standing directly behind my chair. He was adjusting his heavy denim jacket, which was now draped over my bare shoulders.

His hands didn't touch my skin, but the radiant heat of his body was inches away.

He moved to the side, placing a steaming cup of cappuccino on the table, well away from Alana’s books. He sat down in the chair opposite us, wearing nothing but a plain black t-shirt now, his muscular arms exposed.

"Um... Gareth..." I gripped the lapels of the oversized jacket, the fabric still holding the warmth of his skin. "This is..."

"You looked like you were freezing," Gareth interrupted. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically flustered. "I... uh... I hope the jacket doesn't smell?"

"What? No! It smells great!" I blurted out.

The silence that followed was deafening. I realized my response had been way too enthusiastic, way too honest.

"Oooooh!"

The shout came in a perfect, mocking harmony from the bar. The entire cafe turned again. Sam was actually clapping. The old men playing chess in the corner started whistling.

"She said it smells great, boys!"

"Go for it, Gareth! Don't let her go!"

My face wasn't just red anymore; it was a deep, burning purple. I ducked my head, hiding behind the curtain of my hair.

Gareth was no better. He covered his face with one hand, shaking his head in silent, pained resignation.

"Daddy, why is your face red? And Ms. Claire too?" Alana asked innocently.

I took a long, shaky breath, trying to stabilize my pulse.

"It’s... it’s nothing, honey. Maybe the air conditioning is broken," I lied poorly.

I pulled the chair closer, pretending to focus on the workbook. But my eyes betrayed me, flickering upward. Gareth was peeking at me through the gaps in his fingers.

Our gazes met.

Pfft.

We both looked down at the same time, our shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. The situation was absurd, humiliating, and entirely public.