Page 2 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
The way she scans the room between words catches my attention—left to right, eyes briefly lingering on the entrance, the back hallway, the windows. Not casual. Systematic. A pattern that mirrors tactical surveillance assessment.
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. That quick touch shoots a surprising spark through my arm.Just some randomstatic, that's it.But I withdraw my hand too quickly, betraying my discomfort.
My heart rate ticks up a fraction—an anomaly my body hasn't experienced outside of combat situations in years.
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 cataloging details I shouldn't care about—the coconut scent clinging to her hair, 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 as I position it to face the room with my back to the wall.Perfect.
She's handling three customers at once now, her fingers flying across the register screen, then commanding the espresso machine without missing a beat in her conversation. There's something about her movements that doesn't align with typical barista training.
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.
Opening my laptop creates the perfect cover for surveillance, but my attention keeps drifting back to the counter.
Movement in my peripheral vision. The barista approaches, carrying another cup. My muscles tense instinctively, a coil of alertness tightening between my shoulder blades. This isn't normal coffee shop protocol—counter service doesn't include table visits.
She sets the cup down beside my first one, 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 have military posture? Back to wall, clear view of both exits, laptop angled for privacy, even the way you place your cup exactly one hand's width from your right side."
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.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The way you scan the room every thirty seconds. Classic security sweep." She gestures with her chin. "That's not something casual coffee drinkers do."
My mind shifts into tactical evaluation mode. She's observant—dangerously so. Most civilians don't notice these patterns. Which means she's either trained or unusually perceptive.
