Page 22 of Mercy in Betrayal

Scotland. I huff quietly to myself, rolling my eyes. “I’m not from Scotland.” Turning, I bare my teeth politely and place the Americano between us on the counter. “Two dollars and thirty-seven cents, please.”

“Oh, sure.”

As he fumbles for his card and pays, I pull my book back in front of me and open it to my spot. On the floor beside my seat, Clementine yawns and stretches, as if to ask if he needs to intervene. The disability office finally came through and provided the necessary pass that allowed him on campus with me.

I give his paw a little nudge with my toe.

“So, ah—”

“Thank you.” I slide the Americano closer to him with what I hope is a dismissive smile.

“Ah, yes.” He lifts the drink and takes a sip. “Great coffee. Good work. Anyway, I was thinking—”

God, am I going to have to take my break early? This guy is persistent.

Maybe I should absquatulate. Absquatulate: leave suddenly, without warning—

“You’re holding the line up.”

My gaze flickers past the annoying student to the man who just stepped up behind him—the man from the other night and my hero once again, it seems. He smiles, just the faintest curl of his lips. “Hi.”

My hand lifts of its own volition in a little wave, the pages of my book falling closed. “Hi.”

The student takes a step to the side. “Oh, sure, sure! Sorry, I’ll just wait over here.”

The man twists his neck to look fully at him and gives a single, decisive shake of his head. “No.”

“No?”

“Go away.”

O-okay.”

The student leaves, and I can’t help the delighted little laugh that escapes. “Thank you. He was most determined.”

My rescuer places a hand on the counter between us, tapping the wood with a roll of his fingers, and my cheeks heat as I remember the way I fantasized about those fingers taking possession of my body. To give myself something else to think about, I grab for a paper cup, knocking over the stack. Blushing fiercely, I set them aright. “What can I make for you?”

His gaze travels over me, steady and unblinking, and he takes his time replying. “How about a pour-over?”

I hesitate. “Are you asking?”

His lips quirk in the faintest of smiles. “No. I’ll have a pour-over. You’ll have one, also.”

“Will I?” I pick up a pen and hold it, poised, over the cup. “What’s your name?”

“Yes. You’re going to take your break.” He glances around, drawing back to look at the outside of the cart. “Is this cart part of a franchise?”

I frown, not understanding. “I don’t follow.”

“Like the one where they always ask for the names. You didn’t ask for the other guy’s name.”

“Oh.” I tap the pen against the cup. Around us, the sounds and sights of the courtyard blur and fade into nothingness. There’s only this man standing in front of me, his pale amber eyes an alluring mystery I wanted to drown in. “I didn’t want his name.”

His lips, full and soft-looking, curl up more fully at the corners. “Such a sweet little bird. I’m Enzo.”

After a moment’s deliberation, I write my name on his cup, along with my cell phone number, and then get to work making two cafe Americanos. He leans on the counter across from me, the spicy fragrance of his cologne vying with the scent of coffee.

“You’re not Scottish. Where does the accent come from?”

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