Page 71 of Taste of Addiction

I let out a breath. “Why am I agreeing to any of this?”

“Because deep down you love it.”

“What time does this all start?”

“Seven.”

“Okay, you going to come to my place?”

“Yup. And I’ll bring your outfit, so you have less chance to veto anything."

“Bye Claire.”

“Bye Angie.”

I shut off my phone and slip it into my bag. I really do not like these dress-up themes due to the pressure to dress provocatively, but Claire lives for this type of stuff. How can I disappoint her? Plus, knowing Ethan’s need to maintain an image, I am an easy target for her vision board that she alters weekly. If she can’t dress him up, then I turn into her involuntary tribute.

“Collins?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Claire is coming over earlier on Friday but we plan to be at Slay around seven o’clock.”

“Sounds good,” he says, pulling as close as he can to the cafe entrance. “I’m going to leave you out here and make sure you get inside. I’ll park and be around in case you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I say softly and exit.

I enter the cafe and wave to Paul. I then make a beeline for the cubbies, so I can set my belongings there. I pull out my work shirt from my bag and slip inside the restroom to put it on. After, I wash my hands at the sink behind the counter and punch in on the register so the owner knows I am on time.

“Hey,” Paul says. “Everything okay with you? You missed yesterday, and I haven’t seen you since before Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah. I was just not having the best day yesterday,” I say, but quickly add, “but am feeling much better now.” The last thing I need right now is to explain any details. I just want to move forward.

“Glad you are better.”

“Yeah, me too.” Am I better, though? I feel like my cravings are manageable. But what if tonight they aren’t? Then what?

I handle the influx of customers that arrive as a group. I punch in the orders, accept the payment, and then go to work making the drinks. Bills get stuffed into the tip jar, and I stay focused at my task.

Halfway through my shift, Graham gets in line and waits his turn. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I move about the workstation, adding ingredients to blenders and popping on lids. When he gets to the front of the line, he slides three one-hundred-dollar bills into the tip jar.

“You didn’t even order yet,” I scoff at his blatant disregard for the value of money.

“I’m gambling that it’ll be the best drink I’ve had today,” he says sultrily.

“Quit flirting with me,” I warn, my voice low and gruff.

“Quit making me want you.”

“You make it seem like this is my fault,” I blanch.

“It is.”

I prop my hands on my hips and try to think about what we are debating in the first place. When I come up blank, I start giggling.

“Are you even thirsty?” I ask.

He licks his lips subtly and stares blatantly at mine. “Oh yes, I am very thirsty.”

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