Page 8 of Shattered Promise
My life would be so much easier if I didn’t find him so goddamn attractive.
“Welcome to the Coffee Shop. What can I get started for you?” the barista asks, voice bright and familiar.
“Hi. Iced shaken espresso, please,” I say, hoping the steadiness of my tone makes up for the chaos in my bloodstream.
“You got it. And your regular, Mason?” the barista asks, flicking a glance over my shoulder.
I blink and step slightly to the side as Mason steps forward. So, he’s a regular here. Not surprising, but something in me logs it anyway.
“Let’s try the pistachio latte today. Iced, please, Collin. Extra whip.”
The barista nods and rings us up. Before I can reach for my wallet, Mason’s already sliding his card into the reader.
“Thanks.” It comes out quieter than I meant it to.
He lifts a shoulder, casual and unbothered. “What can I say? I’m committed.”
We move toward the pickup window and settle at the short stretch of counter tucked into the corner of the café. It’s quieter here. Cozy. One of those spaces Avalon Falls specializes in—half-hidden and quietly magical.
I lean back against the warm, exposed brick wall and glance around. Most of the bistro tables are full, which isn’t surprising for a Sunday morning. What does surprise me is how many people I don’t recognize.
That’s the thing about this town. It’s small, but notthatsmall. Just big enough for two elementary schools. Two middle schools. Two high schools. And a dozen micro-worlds that don't overlap unless something forces them to.
Like now.
A second barista sets our drinks down with a soft smile. “Here you go. Enjoy.”
Mason grabs his cup first. I glance at the mountain of whipped cream and bite back a grin. Bold choice for nine a.m. He catches my expression instantly.
“Something to say, Trouble?”
That nickname. Thatinflection. My stomach dips.
I give him my most innocent look—wide-eyed and just shy of condescending. “Just . . . pleasantly surprised by your drink order.”
He lifts his cup in a mock salute, eyes glinting. “I have a sweet tooth. What can I say?”
My breath catches with the smallest hitch, as heat curls low and slow in my stomach. It’s ridiculous, the effect one smirk can have. But the look he gives me—casual and loaded all at once—lands hard.
Then he steps closer, the space between us narrowing by degrees. That slow grin of his? It should come with a warning label.
“Try it,” he says, giving the pistachio latte a lazy swirl before offering it to me like a peace offering. Or maybe a trap. “And I dare you not to like it.”
I stare at him, my heart starting to trip over itself. “You dare me?”
His mouth curves wider. “What, are you scared?”
God, what is this? My pulse surges like a live current under my skin.
“Scared of whipped cream and pistachios?Please.”
Our fingers brush as I take the cup, and the smug smile on his face slips a little. I take a sip before I can overthink it. The latte is smooth and nutty, barely sweet with a warm, creamy finish. And it's annoyingly good.
I hum under my breath. “Okay, so it’s not bad.”
He laughs, all dimple and quiet satisfaction. “Admit it. You’re one sip away from ordering your own.”
I hand the cup back, and our fingers brush again—too soft, too brief, too much. He clears his throat and takes it from me, lifting it to his mouth and drinking from the exact spot I just did.
