Page 31 of Ethan
What was new was the stupid grin tugging at my mouth.
Ethan. I groaned and dragged a hand down my face, hoping that would scrub the thought of him from my brain. It didn’t.
Instead, all it did was bring up the mental image of that banana-and-mayo sandwich, the soft smile he gave me when I told him it reminded me of home.
That almost gentle look he got when I wasn’t being a complete disaster. He’d been nice to me. He hadn’t had to be. That counted for something.
I tossed the blanket off, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and stood, stretching until my spine cracked. A cup of coffee sounded good. Real good.
I grabbed my hoodie, shoved it over my head, and slipped on a pair of boots. Maybe I could grab two, one for me, and one for Ethan.
But then Carter’s voice crept in like a cold draft under the door.
“You come on strong. Give him some space to breathe.”
I frowned, hand hovering over the doorknob.
Right. Carter had a point. I’d been all over Ethan the past few days. Hovering. Showing up. Flirting like a dumbass with zero game. And Ethan hadn’t exactly invited it, had he?
I sighed and leaned against the door, pressing my forehead to the wood.
Still, it didn’t feel right not to do anything. There had to be a middle ground between smothering and disappearing completely.
Then I remembered something Ethan had said once, in passing. A throwaway comment while he bandaged a teen’s twisted ankle and drank from a plastic cup with a fading label.
“This is nothing like Vanilla Bean. Now that’s coffee.”
Vanilla Bean. The tiny café downtown.
I straightened.
If I wasn’t showing up at his clinic again with mediocre pack house coffee, but instead getting him something he actually liked, something he’d mentioned himself, then it wasn’t pushy.
It was thoughtful. Casual. Stealthy even. Yeah. I’d just drop it off. No big declaration. No hearts and flowers.
I’d ask someone else to deliver it. It didn’t have to be from me. Problem solved. I checked the time. If I left now, I could make it to town, grab the drink, and be back just in time for training.
Feeling almost smug, I pocketed my wallet and headed out.
Thirty minutes later, I was standing in a ridiculously long line outside the cafe, glaring at the back of a teen’s head in front of me while he recorded some kind of vlog about seasonal flavor rotations.
“Why are you all here at 8 a.m.?” I muttered under my breath.
The woman in yoga pants behind me snorted. “Because it’s Saturday. And we’re all caffeine-starved addicts.”
Fair enough. Still, this felt excessive. I looked at the winding line ahead and groaned. I considered backing out at least four times.
My wolf hated the wait, restless and twitchy under my skin. My human side wasn’t thrilled either. But then I remembered Ethan’s offhand comment.
The rare softness in his voice when he talked about how the barista knew his name, how the drink was just right, how the café smelled like cinnamon and cardamom and roasted almonds.
The line crawled.
By the time I got to the counter, I was sweating under my hoodie and vibrating with impatience.
“What can I get you?” the barista chirped.
“Caramel cold brew,” I said, leaning in. “With a hint of cardamom. Splash of oat milk.”
