Page 155 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
"Strong and bitter, just like the personality it matches."
I blink. She's back, setting my coffee on the counter, a playful spark in her eyes. No one makes comments like that to strangers. Especially not to men who look like me.
"Excuse me?"
"The coffee." She taps the cup with a short fingernail, painted black with tiny silver stars. "Single origin Ethiopian. It's intense but complex. Not everyone appreciates it."
"I didn't ask for Ethiopian." My voice comes out cooler than intended.
She shrugs, unbothered by my tone. "Trust me. If you're drinking it black, this is better than our house blend."
The way she constantly scans the room between words—left to right, eyes briefly lingering on the entrance, the back hallway, the windows. Not a casual sweep. Systematic. Similar to how I check a room.
Interesting.
"You always decide what customers want?" I pull my wallet from my jacket pocket.
"Only when I know I'm right." Her smile widens, revealing a slight dimple in her left cheek. "Which is most of the time."
Our fingers brush as I hand her my card. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt up my arm—static electricity, nothing more. But I withdraw my hand too quickly, betraying my discomfort.
Her eyes flick to my face, registering my reaction. "Sorry about that. Happens all the time in here. Something about the machines."
I nod, not trusting myself to respond.What the hell was that?I'm distracted, mentally cataloguing details I shouldn't care about—the coconut scent of her shampoo, the perfect curve of her lower lip, the way she bounces slightly on her toes as if containing excess energy.
Irrelevant. Distracting. Delete.
"Enjoy." She slides the coffee toward me with a wink that seems both professional and somehow private.
I take my coffee and retreat to my pre-selected table, positioning myself with clear sightlines to every entrance and most patrons. The chair scrapes against hardwood asI position it to face the room with my back to the wall. Perfect.
Opening my laptop creates the perfect cover for surveillance, but my attention keeps drifting back to the counter.
She's handling three customers at once now, multitasking with remarkable efficiency. Her fingers fly across the register screen, then dance over the espresso machine controls without missing a beat in her conversation with the customers. There's something about her movements—precise, calculated, yet fluid—that doesn't quite match her role.
I force my gaze back to the door. Target identification is the objective. Not analyzing baristas with intriguing movements and perceptive gazes.
But my eyes betray me, returning to her once more.
I take a sip of the coffee. It's exceptional—notes of dark chocolate and citrus cutting through the bitterness. Not that I'll give her the satisfaction of knowing I think that.
My laptop screen displays financial reports—a convincing cover while I monitor the door. I've positioned it at the perfect angle to observe reflections from the front window. The sun creates a natural glare barrier, keeping my screen private while illuminating the shop's entrance.
Movement in my peripheral vision. The barista approaches, carrying another cup. My muscles tense instinctively. This isn't normal coffee shop protocol—counter service doesn't include table visits.
She sets the cup down beside my first, still half-full. Steam rises from the dark liquid.
"Made this one special." Her tone leaves no room for refusal. "When you finish that one."
I don't look up. "I didn't order a second coffee."
"It's on the house."
"Not necessary." My voice drops colder, words clipped to discourage further interaction.
Instead of retreating, she stands her ground. "Has anyone ever told you that you sit with military posture?"
My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The observation is too accurate, too specific. I raise my eyes slowly, reassessing her threat level. She's watching me with that same analytical expression beneath her customer service smile.
