Page 21 of The Escape Plan

I’m going to have to take the risk of running into them this morning. I introduced Andrew to Serendipi-Tea, and we came here often together. But Sunday mornings? Those were alwaysmydomain. And I need a Serendipi-Tea breakfast sandwich in my life. Stat.

Because nothing is a better cure-all for a bad night’s sleep than a bagel with eggs, cheese, bacon, ketchup, and extra bacon.

Serendipi-Tea is beloved by the residents of Serendipity Springs for very good reason. It’s in an old two-story converted Victorian home about two miles from The Serendipity, and though there are cafes closer to my apartment, I particularly love this one.

The second you step inside, you’re accosted by the delicious smells of sugar, coffee, and chai. Its decor is cool and quirky, and there are plants everywhere. I’m utterly charmed by the place.

And Andrew and Lisa can’t—and won’t—take it from me.

Or so I tell myself staunchly as I walk down the street towards the cafe, my Converse smacking the sidewalk as I go.

It’s a beautiful morning, early enough that it’s not deathly hot out yet, and the world is just starting to come alive. A trickle of people walk down the street in search of much-needed caffeine. Cafe owners put out sandwich boards advertising their daily specials. Mavis Pinkman is rolling up the shutters on her trinket store, Persnicketies.

I wave at her as I duck into Serendipi-Tea.

“Morning,” I greet Nori, my friend and the cafe’s new owner. She also happens to live on the third floor of my building, a few doors down from Andrew.

“Morning, Keeley.” Nori’s kind eyes move over me. “You look?—”

“Tired,” I finish for her, and she nods, her cheeks pinkening.

“I didn’t know whether to say that or not,” she admits, and I laugh. After finally falling asleep at 3am following the most bizarre and embarrassing middle-of-the-night encounter with Beckett McCarthy (AKA my new neighbor, horror of horrors), I was woken up at 8am by said new-neighbor’s guitar playing (which, admittedly, was a more preferable way to be soothed awake than my “WAKE UP!” alarm clock).

But I know I must look a little worse for wear today. Again.

“Hey, you’re way more tactful than Sissy was. She tried to sell me under-eye cream when she saw me yesterday.”

“Typical.” Nori laughs as she rings up my usual order on the till. Perks of being friends with the owner of your favorite cafe—she knows your Sunday order by heart.

I lean against the counter and do a quick scan of the cafe, but I don’t see Andrew and Lisa anywhere, thank goodness.

“So, why so tired?” Nori asks in her usual, gentle way.

“Did you happen to see Andrew come in here with another girl yesterday?”

“No, I was off yesterday.” Nori’s mouth falls open. “You’re not saying?—?”

And I don’t know if it’s the fatigue or the need to talk to someone who’s first reaction isn’t “Why not date the Irish dude instead" (AKA my brother), but as Nori hands me my coffee with two pumps of caramel syrup and a splash of heavy cream, I find myself pouring out yesterday’s saga from start to finish.

The only detail I leave out is the one where Beckett was shirtless and looking oh-so-sexy when I tapped on his window in the middle of night.

That particular little morsel I keep stuffed in my pocket. For me to think about, and me only.

Or, you know, not think about. Ever.

Because the way my cheeks heat every time I remember the skim of his gaze on my bare legs is not ideal. Not ideal at all. The man is clearly a terrible flirt, and I am clearly terribly stupid for letting his flirting work on me.

Plus, the smug look on his face when my window easily slid open will haunt me ’til the day I die.

I swear it was stuck before he tried it.

By the time I’m done with my story, Nori looks stunned. Her brow furrows as she pushes a stray lock of dark brown hair behind her ear. “That’s unbelievable, Keeley. I’m sorry about Andrew.”

“Thanks,” I say appreciatively, smiling across the counter at her.

Nori and I have been friends for a while, and the usually warm feeling I have towards her only compounds as she adds, “You could have texted me when you got stuck on the fire escape. I would’ve come and helped you.” Her eyes crinkle mischievously. “No wait, I take that back because then the hot Irishman wouldn’t have come to your rescue.”

“HotinsufferableIrishman,” I correct her, glowering at the memory of his comment about me losing my pants. “The man’s been here all of five minutes, and he’s a rogue and… and… an incorrigible flirt!”

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