Page 34 of The Flavor of Us

I hesitate, my heart still hammering in my chest but I agree because Ashton is right. I need a minute to sort all the chaos in my head. He releases my wrist, his hand lingering for just a second before he steps back and gestures toward the café.

“After you, little doe.”

I roll my eyes at the nickname, but my lips twitch upward despite myself.

“Stop calling me that,” I mutter, shoving my hands back into my pockets as I start walking across the street.

“Can’t make any promises,” he calls after me, his warm laugh chasing me all the way to the café doors.

The café is warm and cozy, smelling like roasted coffee beans, vanilla syrup, and something sugary that makes my stomach growl despite the tight knot of nerves sitting in it. Ashton holds the door open for me, one brow quirked as I shuffle inside, my hoodie sleeves pulled down over my hands.

He’s too relaxed. Too effortlessly cool as he strolls up to the counter like he owns the place, pulling out his black card with a flick of his wrist. “Espresso,” he says casually, flashing the barista that charming, wicked grin of his.

The barista—a Beta with bright pink hair and tired eyes—types it in before turning to me expectantly.

My mouth opens. Then closes. I don’t know what to order. Or rather, Ido, but the idea of saying it out loud in front ofAshton freaking St. Jamesmakes me want to evaporate into mist. When I don’t say anything, the barista tilts her head slightly, her lips twitching into a soft smile.

“Your usual?” she asks gently.

I freeze. The usual? Ohno.

“Do you want the mocha latte with triple whip and chocolate chips?”

Kill me. Just…kill me now.

I sigh heavily, my face heating as I nod. “Yeah. That one.”

Out of the corner of my eye, Ashton’s grin stretches impossibly wider and I swear his shoulders are shaking like he’s holding back a laugh.

We grab our drinks—his tiny cup of espresso looking positively judgmental next to my towering monstrosity of whipped cream and chocolate—and Ashton leads us to a spot by the counter. It’s not crowded here, the stools tucked away against the large window. Outside, people bustle past, living their lives, unaware that my entire existence is currently imploding.

Ashton sets his espresso down, slides onto a stool, and watches me as I settle awkwardly beside him, the silence stretching between us. His brown eyes flicker down to my untouched drink, still piled high with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. He looks back up at me, his brows furrowing slightly. “Everything okay, Tati?”

I blink at him, clutching my drink with both hands but not taking a sip. “Uh, yeah. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine? Everything’s fine. Totally normal,” I ramble, my voice cracking slightly at the end.

Ashton tilts his head, his smirk twitching back to life. “Tati,” he purrs, leaning on his forearms and lowering his voice like he’s letting me in on some grand secret, “why aren’t you drinking it?”

I freeze, staring at the whipped cream like it might offer me salvation. “I… I don’t know,” I mumble.

Ashton snorts softly, shaking his head before leaning back slightly on his stool. “Let me guess,” he says smoothly, tilting his head as he studies me. “You think I’m judging you for it, don’t you?”

My head snaps up, my eyes wide. “No!”

His smirk deepens. “Yes, you do. You think I’m over here with my espresso, looking down my nose at your sugary monstrosity of a drink.”

I sputter, my face heating further. “I mean—it’s notthatsugary.”

Ashton laughs, the sound warm and deep, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. “Tati,” he says softly, reaching across the narrow table until his knuckles brush against my cheek.

I go stock-still, my breath catching as his thumb hovers just under my jaw. His brown eyes soften, his expression morphing into something that feels like home.

“I think it’s wonderful you like sugar,” he says. “Honestly, it’s one of my favorite things to make. Desserts, pastries… sugar isfun, little doe. It makes people happy. And me?” Ashton murmurs, his lips curling back into that slow, wicked smile. “I like sweet things too.”

Oh. Ohno.

I make a noise—somewhere between a squeak and a hiccup—and immediately lift my mocha latte monstrosity to my lips. I take the biggest sip I can manage, whipped cream smearing across my upper lip and chocolate chips crunching between my teeth.

Ashton grins, full teeth this time, leaning his chin against his fist as he watches me like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. “Good?” he asks innocently.

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