Page 90 of Fated

The door bangs then. It slams against the plaster wall. I jump at the sharp, cracking noise, and Robert half-turns, looking toward the sunlit entry.

No one is there.

When he looks back at me his expression is earnest and innocently blank again, the heavy emotions blown away on the sharp gust of wind.

But I have something to say. “I told you before. I’m not leaving with you. I’m married. Whatever you feel, it has to end.”

Robert shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in me. He taps a long finger against the counter and then straightens, looking back at the door. “I’m working with McCormick this afternoon. We’re trimming trees. Essie says she feels a storm coming. Her hands are aching.”

“A storm?”

Suddenly he grins at me. A crackling, hollow-eyed smile. “Yes. A storm.”

And then he turns and strides toward the open doors.

“You forgot your coffee.”

He raises a hand—leave it.

I sigh and lean against the counter. I stare at the swirl of the foam and the rich caramel color of the espresso. After a moment of contemplation I lift the mug and take a sip.

The milk is light, creamy. The espresso is nutty and sweet, hinting at toffee and sugar. The coffee coats my tongue and I smile.

If nothing else, I can still make a fantastic cup of coffee.

I’m still smiling when Amy strides in, a bulky backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks around at the empty shop, slides onto a bench at the counter, and says, “Dad wanted me to give you a message.”

30

The jazz musichas shifted into piano-banging, trumpet-roaring swing. It matches the shift in the wind from stiff breeze to white-capped gust. Outside gulls hug the shoreline, surfing on the wind.

“About the storm?” I ask, my heart kicking up speed either from the burst of caffeine or from Amy’s mention of Aaron.

It’s funny, the sensations here. The feel of my rushed pulse, the salt-heavy air wicking against my damp skin, even the dip in my stomach when I picture the way Aaron last looked at me. Every sensation, the cool sand on my skin, the texture of Aaron’s callouses as he dragged his fingers over my cheeks, the heat that curls through me at the thought of him. Even the creamy, rich foam of the latte that coats my mouth and the buoyant laughter that bubbles in me when I look at Amy perched on the bench—it all feels so real.

As real as real life.

I’ve already accepted that this dream life feels real. But that doesn’t stop me from being surprised when my heart races or my skin prickles from the hot sun.

Amy slouches on the bench, dropping her heavy backpack to the floor. It hits with a loud thud—evidence she stuffed about twenty books inside.

“What storm?” She glances out the door, checking the growing waves and the gathering gulls against the clear, unclouded blue of the sky. She blows out a breath and the dark curls around her face fly up and out. “Maybe tomorrow. Or the next day, I guess.”

Then she eyes my half-finished latte on the counter. “Whatcha drinking?”

“A latte. Do you want one?”

She gives me a horrified look that’s just like Robert’s, only tuned up a thousand notches. “I’ll have some water.”

“I can make it decaf since you’re still a kid,” I say, knowing the “just a kid” line will tempt her. Then I pick up my mug and take a sip, closing my eyes and moaning in pleasure.

“Oh my gosh. No. Mom. Your coffee is gross. Not even Dad’ll drink it. Stop faking.”

I open my eyes and put down my mug with a thud. “What message did you have?”

“From Dad?”

I nod then pull a tall glass from the shelf below the counter and fill it with water. I set it on the counter in front of Amy and start scooping out espresso. I’m going to make her a latte. One rich with cream and milk and sugar. She’s going to love it.

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