Page 25 of Isaia

I stomp over, trying to muster up some bravado. “Three times in one week,” I say, arms crossed over my chest. “Once? Coincidence. Twice? A fluke. But three times? Now, that’s just suspicious.”

He stares at me, his gaze intense. “You have a habit of keeping track of me, Everly?”

“It’s hard not to notice when you keep popping up.”

“Maybe I just have good taste in coffee,” he says smoothly, shrugging as if it’s nothing.

I roll my eyes. “Right. Because I’m sure a guy like you drinks lattes with foam art and listens to indie acoustic music while brooding in the corner.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Let’s cut the bullshit,” I say, sliding into the seat across from him. “Did he send you?”

Isaia leans forward. “Did who send me?”

“You know who.”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

Isaia’s eyes darken, his forearms resting on the table, and my breath catches at the sight of his veiny, muscled arms.

My gaze falls to the tattoo on his forearm—an intricately detailed broken clock split down the middle, with shattered glass surrounding it. Beneath the cracks, a Latin phrase wraps around the design.

Memento Mori.

Damn, I should’ve taken Latin.

I clear my throat. “My stepdad. Did he send you?”

“If you know who I am like you say you do, you’ll know I’m no one’s bitch or errand boy.”

“Is that slang for, ‘no, your stepdad didn’t send me?’ Because I’m not fluent in gangster.”

First, it’s a slight curve at the corners of his mouth. A smile. And then it turns into a laugh—well, more of a snicker than a laugh, but by God, if this wasn’t such a serious conversation, it would have been a proud moment for me.

“I like you, Everly Beaumont.”

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t like me. The last thing I need is for you to like me.”

He leans back, finger tapping on the table. “Who’s your stepdad?”

I narrow my eyes. “Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t.”

“Lies. You probably know my blood type by now and the exact date and time I had my last flu shot. And just so you’re updated, I had a burrito for supper last night. Last Tuesday, it was a peanut butter and mayo sandwich.”

“Ew.” He frowns. “Who the fuck eats peanut butter with mayo?”

“Ithe fuckeat peanut butter with mayo.”

He stares at me like I just grew a second head. “That’s…terrible.”

I lean back, smug. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“No, thanks.” He shifts in his seat, an amused smile creeping across his lips. “But now I definitely need to take you out for a proper meal, considering what you’ve been subjecting yourself to.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Dinner, huh? Let me guess—you're going to sweep me off my feet with some five-star meal? Candlelight, wine, and you’ll smugly watch me forget all about my sandwiches.”

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