For The Coffee

LIV

My boyfriend, Ben, is going to propose to me any day now.

We’ve been together for two years. Before him, my dating history was a blank page, no flings, no messy exes, nothing. He’s my first real boyfriend, my safe harbor, and the man I’m supposed to marry.

Lately, he’s been dropping not-so-subtle hints about our future, acting secretive with his phone, and whispering behind my back with my best friend, Gia, whenever I leave the room.

So, I’m waiting.

Every time he suggests dinner or texts me out of the blue, my heart does a little flip, wondering if tonight is the night he drops to one knee.

Honestly, that is the only reason I’m in a good enough mood to cover my sister’s bakery and coffee shop, Sweet Crumb, by myself today after her lead barista caught the flu.

I do not do customer service, and I definitely do not do people before noon.

Which is why I’m seconds away from kicking Gia out of the shop after she showed up an hour ago strictly to eat free pastries and judge my life choices.

"I’m just saying," Gia says around a mouthful of a blueberry scone, "two years is a long time to wait for a piece of jewelry, Liv."

My best friend sits on the opposite side of the counter in a leather miniskirt and a black mesh top. Her ink-black hair, cut with icy-silver streaks, is clipped back in a messy claw clip, and her winged eyeliner is sharp enough to actually draw blood. Her cleavage is on full, unapologetic display.

She kicks her heel against the metal stool, ignoring the older couple glaring at her from the corner table. They’ve been nursing the same black teas for an hour just to judge the room.

Let them stare.

"Ben isn't making me wait," I say, wiping down the espresso machine and tossing the damp rag into the sink. "We’ve been together two years, Gia, not two decades. Besides, I know for a fact the proposal is coming. I caught browser tabs for engagement rings open on his laptop last week. He’s just waiting for the right moment to ask."

Gia raises an eyebrow, tapping a black-painted fingernail against her iced coffee. "Right. Because buying a diamond takes months of top-secret planning."

"He likes to be thorough."

"He’s too good to be true, is what he is." She leans over the counter. "Look, I’m just going to say it. You’re twenty-nine and still a virgin, Liv. Let's be real, if a guy dated me for two years without trying to get me into bed, I’d assume he was fucking someone else."

"Gia!" I hiss, my cheeks heating up.

I love her to death, but the woman does not possess a public filter.

Or a private one.

At the corner table, the older woman snaps her head toward us, her lips pursed in horror. I offer an apologetic grimace and mouth the word, Sorry.

Gia flashes her a sickeningly sweet, fake smile. It drops the exact second the woman looks away.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Gia continues, lowering her voice by approximately half a decibel. "I think Ben is a good guy. I'm just genuinely surprised he's actually okay with being your first boyfriend and keeping your virginity intact until the wedding night."

"He respects my choices. It's called having boundaries, Gia. You should G****e the concept sometime."

She smirks. "It’s just ironic. You’re practically a nun in real life, but somehow you write the most unhinged, erotic horror books I've ever read."

I roll my eyes, tossing a sugar packet at her head. She catches it without flinching.

"It's called fiction," I say. "Spare me your horniness and go to a club. Get laid. Bother someone else."

"I would love to get laid," Gia sighs, dramatically draping herself over the counter. She tilts her head, looking past my shoulder toward the back corner of the shop. "In fact, I would happily let the guy in the corner booth ruin my life."

I grab a clean towel and turn around, pretending to check the pastry display so I can follow her line of sight.

My eyes land on the corner booth and my stomach immediately drops.

There is a man sitting alone at the two-top near the window. He doesn't belong in a pastel-painted coffee shop.

Honestly, he doesn't look like he belongs anywhere with daylight.

He looks like a guy who burns things for a living. He is dressed in a dark leather jacket over a black shirt, his long legs stretched out under the small table.

Most people fidget when they sit alone. They scroll on their phones or tap their feet.

He is doing none of that.

He sits completely still, hands resting on the tabletop.

I blink.

His knuckles are bruised, the skin lightly scarred.

Has he been in a fight, or does he just punch walls for fun?

His coffee cup sits untouched. And he is staring directly at our section of the counter.

I roll my eyes internally and turn back to the register. With Gia basically spilling out of her top, I’m not surprised.

Just come over and ask for her number already so we can move on.

"Tell me you don't feel that," Gia whispers, leaning closer to me. "The man is undressing you with his retinas."

"Undressing me? Please. He's staring at your mesh top, Gia," I say dryly, organizing a stack of napkins. "Which is exactly what you wanted when you put it on."

"Wanna bet?" Gia smirks, sliding off her stool. She takes three dramatic steps to the right, leaning against the pastry case. "Check again."

I frown, grabbing the espresso tamper and stepping down the counter to restock the lids. I tell myself I'm not going to look.

I look anyway.

His eyes should be glued to Gia.

They aren't.

His head hasn't moved an inch, but his gaze tracked me across the counter.

A weird, cold prickle runs down the back of my neck.

He rests his elbow on the table, bringing his hand up to his face. Slowly, deliberately, he drags his thumb across his bottom lip.

His dark, piercing blue eyes locked dead onto mine.

I freeze.

It’s a quiet, unhurried gesture. Way too intimate for a public room.

Wait.

He’s actually looking at me?

Why? Gia is half-naked, and I am wearing an apron covered in mocha syrup.

His bone structure looks carved with a scalpel—hard, hollowed out, and unforgiving.

He’s not just looking. He’s calculating. He looks like one of the monsters I only allow to exist between the pages of my manuscripts. The kind of man who views every interaction as a game he’s already won.

"He's creeping me out," I mutter, spinning around so my back is to him. "He hasn't taken a single sip of that coffee."

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I pull it out, practically lunging for the distraction.

Ben: Hey beautiful. Almost done? Need me to come grab you?

My shoulders drop an inch. The tense coil in my neck finally snaps.

Thank God. Normalcy. My sweet, predictable, soon-to-be fiancé.

Me: You’re a lifesaver. I left my car today! Should be done in thirty.

I smile at the screen for a second longer than necessary before slipping the phone back into my apron.

I look back up at Gia.

"Hey," I say, lowering my voice. I grab a dry cloth and start polishing a clean plate. "I wanted to give you a heads-up. Julian is coming to town this weekend."

Gia stops crunching her ice.

Her hand hovers over the counter before she sets the plastic cup down, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the pastry case.

She doesn't look at me, but her jaw ticks.

A direct hit. She always aligns things when she’s trying to keep her world from spinning off its axis.

"Cool," Gia says, tracing the rim of her cup. "Good for him."

"I just wanted you to know," I say gently. "So you aren't caught off guard if he shows up."

"I don't care what he does," she snaps. She grabs her purse, her silver bracelets clanking loudly against the counter. "Anyway. Nature calls. If your stalker comes over here, tell him my number is on the napkin."

She turns and speed-walks toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.

I let out a slow breath and toss the plate aside.

Then the scrape of a chair pushing back echoes across the café.

Every muscle in my back locks up.

I don't need to turn around. The entire atmospheric pressure of the room just shifted. I keep my eyes glued to the register.

Please just walk out the door.

He doesn’t.

A shadow falls over the counter.

The scent of sandalwood and cold air hits me first.

Slowly, reluctantly, I look up.

Up close, the intensity of his stare is suffocating.

He’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes.

There’s a small, pale scar near his jawline, drawing my gaze to the sharp, ruthless cut of his bone structure and the faint shadow of dark stubble clinging to his skin.

He is undeniably, infuriatingly gorgeous. The kind of lethal beauty that sets off every self-preservation instinct in my body.

His expression is a blank wall.

Please don't ask for my number. I have a boyfriend. A good boyfriend. Who is about to propose.

"Can I... help you?" I ask, my voice coming out painfully thin.

He doesn't smile. He doesn't introduce himself. He just reaches into his leather coat, pulls out a black metal credit card, and slides it across the counter toward me.

My eyes drop to his hand. Long fingers. Scarred knuckles. A silver ring.

The physical presence of him makes the air between us feel too thin to breathe.

"For the coffee," he says.

His voice is a low, rough gravel that scrapes straight down my spine.

Right.

The coffee. Obviously.

Get a grip, Liv.

I swallow hard and tap the screen. I run the card and the machine beeps obnoxiously loud in the quiet space.

I hand it back to him along with the printed receipt.

He takes the card. He ignores the receipt.

Without breaking eye contact, he slides a folded white café napkin across the counter. He stops pushing it the exact second it brushes my fingertips.

He gives me one last, calculating look, turns, and walks out the glass front doors.

I stand there frozen for five full seconds, listening to the chime of the door fade away. My heart is hammering hard against my ribs.

Gia strolls back out from the hallway, her phone in her hand. "Did he leave? Tell me you got his—"

She stops dead when she sees my face. "Liv? You okay?"

I don't answer her. I look down at the cheap paper napkin resting against my fingers.

My hands tremble as I pick it up and flip it open.

There is one sentence written in sharp, slash-like black ink.

Ask Ben about Roxy. Or come to Velvet Tears at 10 PM and I’ll tell you.

The air leaves my lungs.

The pastel walls of the coffee shop blur around the edges.

Roxy?

Who the hell is Roxy?

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely slam the cash register shut. I stare at the glass door where a complete stranger just walked out, taking my safe, predictable future with him.

How does he know Ben?

I don’t know what kind of twisted game this is and I don't care what that note says. I am absolutely, definitively not going to meet that man tonight.