Page 4 of Chaos at Westbrook High

“Hey,” Callie says to her when it’s our turn—an attempt to break the awkward tension—but all that seems to do is make it worse.

The coffee girl glares at Callie this time as if she’s mad at her for something. “Mocha latte and a chocolate croissant?” she asks tightly, forcing a smile that’s not fooling anyone.

Callie’s brows dip, and she looks between me and her, a small, amused smirk on her lips as she nods. Damon orders water, Wren orders a black coffee and grabs a shit load of sugar packets, and when it’s my turn to order, I say absolutely nothing. It takes her a full seven seconds—I know because I’m counting in my head—and I almost think she won’t cave, but then she finally lifts her head and looks at me again, just as I wanted her to.

“What do you want?” she asks, and I barely notice the hostility in her tone because fuck, her voice is sweet. Even when she’s trying to be mean, it seems she can’t pull it off.

“What’s your name?”

“Not for you.”

Unsure whether I’m impressed or not, I step closer, rest my forearms on the counter right in front of her, and meet her gaze. I’m a lot taller than she is, but I can see the color of her eyes from down here, even beneath that ball cap she’s using like a shield. They’re pale blue, just a couple shades lighter than mine and Wren’s. Dressed in all black, she’s wearing a tight T-shirt beneath the apron, the Valerie’s logo printed on the front. No name tag though.

Unbothered by the fact that I’m holding up the growing line behind me, I slowly run my eyes down from the top of her head to the clean, manicured tips of her fingernails, oddly fascinated by the small tattoo on her hand beneath her thumb. It’s a daisy. I stare at it, resisting the urge to reach out and run my finger over the petals.

I want to see more of her. All of her. I want to see if she’s got any more ink on her body.

As if she can hear what I’m thinking, she clenches her hands around the towel she’s still holding, but she doesn’t move. Because she knows if she steps back, I’ll be able to see her bare legs. Denying me, she pushes her hips into the counter, bringing her even closer. I already saw what she’s so desperate to hide, and usually, I’d tell her just that, tease her a little and see if I can make her blush, but for some reason, I don’t.

“My name’s Kai,” I tell her instead, lowering my voice to ensure only she can hear me. “But you knew that already, didn’t you?”

Her jaw ticks, and I know I’m right. She can’t possibly be able to tell me and Wren apart—we’re completely identical, right down to the tattoos our bodies are covered in—but she knows I’m a Kingston brother.

I don’t know her though. As familiar as she looks, I can’t place her. She looks about our age, but she doesn’t go to Westbrook High. I guess she could be a college student. Just as I open my mouth to ask, she snatches her hand away and clutches it to her chest, her small fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. She hits me with a look that could kill, and it’s only now I realize I was touching her, running my finger over the daisy on her hand.

I clear my throat. “Sorry.”

She glares at me again.

Fuck. I’m not sorry and she knows it.

“What do you want?” she repeats, her hand still fisted like she’ll punch me if I try that again.

Damon inches closer to me, and Wren does the same on my other side—a subconscious instinct to protect me from vicious little coffee girls. She notices the shift in them, but she doesn’t back up like I thought she would. She doesn’t even bat an eye at them. It amuses me more than it should. This one’s brave.

I tip my chin up at the menu on the wall above her head. “What’s your favorite?”

Unimpressed, she lifts a brow. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No. What do you like?”

“Why?”

“I want a little taste of you.”

She lets out a small laugh, but it’s not a sweet one like it was for the people before us. She’s laughing at me, not with me. “I’m not playing this game with you, Kai. Just tell me what you want.”

“You, moaning my name just like that.”

She pulls her head back, her eyebrows scrunched down into a cute little vee just above her nose. Her cheeks heat again, but again, it’s not out of embarrassment. Honestly, she looks like she wants to hit me.

“You’re vile,” she says quietly, probably to ensure her customers don’t hear her talking to me like that.

“That’s not a no,” I taunt, setting fifty dollars down in front of her.

“I still don’t know what you want.”

“Yes, you do.”

---