Page 29 of The Ones We Fight For

Chapter 11

Talia

Roaster’s Republic was mostly empty as far as seating went, the majority of the customers there to grab their coffee and slip out the door on the way to their day jobs. The convenience of the shop being deserted on weekdays was that the comfortable couches and lounging chairs were always available. Talia and Walker took their usual spot on a corner couch behind a coffee table, accompanied by a fresh-faced Amala, who had plenty of time to get ready that morning. Death glares and a pretense of innocence was shared between the two best friends, Walker none the wiser to their silent conversation about Amala’s little set-up.

Amala had ordered something that was basically a milkshake and ignored all Talia’s pointed looks the second her straw hit her lips.

“They say your coffee order has a lot to do with your personality.” Amala took a long sip of her frap and sighed for effect.

“Oh, there’s actual coffee in that?” Walker chortled and took a purposeful swig of his straight black coffee.

“Semantics.” Amala shrugged. “My order says I’m innocent and sweet.”

Talia scoffed and shook her head. “I think yours means you’re incapable of giving two fucks about anyone’s opinion.”

“And that you’re bold,” Walker considered, tilting his head to the side. “Maybe vibrant to the point of a sugar hangover. What’s mine say about me?”

“Black? Hmm… you like your coffee like you like your women? I’ll remind you that I’m taken.” Amala winked and tossed her braids over one of her shoulders.

“I am terrified to answer that,” Walker grinned. “Your husband will kill me if I say ‘yes’ and you will kill me if I say ‘no.’ Bro code says I should go with the latter.”

“I think yours means you’re…” Talia curled her lips over her teeth and narrowed her eyes on Walker. “You’re simple—”

“Hopefully not a simpleton,” Walker interrupted.

“Simple with a biting humor. And you’re… strong.” Talia let her eyes fall to Walker’s tattooed arm for only a moment before she hid behind her own coffee, looking over the rim of her mug at Amala, who smirked as she typed something out on her phone. A second later, Talia’s phone buzzed in her purse.

“You gonna get that?” Amala asked. “Could be business-related.”

Talia strained to not roll her eyes and defiantly pulled out her phone with a jerk of her hand. She tilted the screen away from Walker, unsurprised that the only message glowing up at her was from Amala.

Amala 8:32AM

I think if Walker’s coffee matched his taste in women, his coffee would be lighter, maybe imported from Israel with a side of New York City branding?

“All good?” Walker’s eyebrows rose, and Talia haphazardly tossed her phone back in her purse like it had scorched her skin. She left Amala’s text on read and schooled her expression into something bored and unassuming.

“Yep. It’s no one important.”

“Walker...” Amala scooted out to the edge of her chair, clearly pleased with herself. “What do you think Talia’s coffee says about her?”

“If I’m being honest, I think this is like astrological signs, and I think it’s all bullshit. It’s vague enough to be realistic for anyone.”

“But, if I was holding a gun to your head?” Amala pried.

“She’s…” Walker drummed his fingers against his leg and cleared his throat after giving Talia a once-over. “She’s the perfect mix between the two of us. She’s both subdued and will pack a punch if she needs to. Sugary because—well, um, she’s sweet. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is the vanilla.”

“Why?” Talia was now fully invested in his answer and could feel the color rising in her cheeks.

“I just don’t picture you as very… vanilla.” Walker’s eyes flashed momentarily with something Talia couldn’t quite place.

The blush crept further up Talia’s throat, her mind immediately jumping to the conclusion that he meant she wasn’t vanilla in the bedroom. The generalized statement could have easily meant something else, but if it was what Walker meant, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that. If the books she read had anything to say about it, she wasn’t vanilla at all. Technically, the only experience she’d had in the bedroom was pretty standard, but that never stopped her imagination from running rampant.

When Walker had asked what book Talia was reading on the car ride over, she was enough of a prude to be embarrassed by her choice of reading material. The cover, luckily, was just a picture of a house that was a bit in disarray with an old deck and chipping paint, so she could easily flash the book at him and get away with calling it a generic romance novel. Contracted Love was based off a movie that she’d seen posters for plastered all over the billboards in New York a while back. Given that she always liked books more than movies, she was happy to see that an adaptation had been done, despite the annoying sticker on the front boasting about it being a Netflix Original. Mostly, the movie looked like the plot involved a lot of steamy sex, and that was definitely the type of novel she loved to devour, so she’d impulsively bought the book from a local bookstore the day before.

Sometimes Talia didn’t want to think too hard when reading a novel, especially with the rest of her life using up all her brainpower. Was it so bad to occasionally want to be lost in some sappy love story where the sex was not at all realistic and everyone orgasmed at the same time, every time, and multiple times? It occasionally required a little thought to figure out how some of the fictional characters even got into those contorted positions, but, sue her, she was a human trash can feeding herself garbage on occasion, and she was fine with that. Just not really fine with Walker or her grandmother, who had long since been dead, knowing about it.

At least the cover was inconspicuous enough to read in public and didn’t have a picture of a shirtless Fabio on the front. Talia reasoned with herself that spicy books might even aid in her efforts to stop thinking of Walker in a sexual way, displacing those thoughts with random book boyfriends that didn’t exist. Harmless fantasies. So far they weren’t helping at all, but she would persist—mostly because she wanted to continue reading absolute trash and pretend it was somehow for a practical purpose. Instead, more often than not, she pictured Walker as the cover model for one of the books she read on her Kindle, which were more filthy than her paperbacks. White ripped T-shirts, glistening skin, abs for days. She’d already seen him shirtless, so it wasn’t hard to conjure an image of him posing seductively in a fireman's uniform, an ax pressed into one bare shoulder. Alternatively, he could be wearing a button-down shirt, mostly unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, while he manspreaded across a whole damn couch. It wasn't unlike what he was already doing, sitting next to her and slurping his coffee, one arm casually draped behind her on the couch, his foot crossing over his other knee.

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