Page 13 of Alpha's Touch
“I, uh… coffee’s almost ready,” he blurted out, heat crawling up his neck. “It’s not fancy or anything. Just, you know, coffee. From beans. Ground up. Which is how coffee works, obviously, so I don’t know why I’m explaining that to you.” His hands fluttered in the air like confused birds before he shoved them into his pockets. “Not that you need a progress report on coffee. Obviously. You can hear it. Everyone can hear it. It’s not exactly stealth coffee.”
God, why couldn’t he just shut up?
Preston retreated to the kitchen like it was a bunker during an air raid.
Then hurried back to the living room.
“Your jacket. Sorry, I forgot I was… it’s really nice leather, by the way. Probably expensive. Not that I know leather prices. Do leather jackets have seasons? Like fashion seasons, not weather seasons, though I guess both apply and—”
He held it out like an offering, his arm rigid.
Zeppelin’s lips curved slightly, eyes warm with amusement as he watched Preston ramble, making Preston wonder if Zeppelin thought he was a complete idiot or just mostly an idiot.
The silence that followed made Preston want to crawl under the coffee table.
“You and your mom look close,” Zeppelin said finally, nodding toward the photo.
“Oh. Yeah. We are. Were. Are.” Preston winced. “She’s not dead or anything. Just in Florida. With my stepdad. Not that you asked for her whole biography.”
Maybe inviting him in had been a mistake. The apartment suddenly felt too small, the air between them charged with something Preston couldn’t name.
“I’m going coffee.” Jesus. Preston escaped back to the kitchen, leaving the jacket draped over the arm of the couch.
Footsteps followed, and suddenly Zeppelin was there, filling the small kitchen with his presence. Preston could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the leather and night air clinging to his skin.
The draw toward him was magnetic, terrifying in its intensity as he moved past Preston, their shoulders brushing. The contact sent electricity across Preston’s skin, and he stepped back, bumping into the counter.
“Where do you keep your mugs?” Zeppelin asked, his voice low and close enough that Preston felt it as much as heard it.
“Second cabinet on the left,” he managed, opening the nearly empty refrigerator to grab a small container of cream that was dangerously close to its expiration date. He reached into the tiny basket and pulled out a handful of sugar packets he’d swiped from the coffee shop this morning.
When he turned around, Zeppelin had set two drinking vessels on the counter. A chipped mug with cartoon dogs running around the rim and a wide-mouthed Mason jar.
“I’ll take the jar,” Zeppelin said, picking it up and examining it. “I prefer drinking coffee from these.”
“Really?” Preston tilted his head. “Is that a biker thing or a Zeppelin thing?”
“Just a me thing,” he replied with a half-smile that made Preston’s heart flip.
As if on cue, Preston’s stomach growled loudly, the sound impossible to ignore in the quiet kitchen. He cringed, wrapping an arm around his middle as if that could muffle the noise.
“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he admitted, moving to the freezer. He pulled out a frost-covered TV dinner and held it up. “I’ve got a gourmet meatloaf entrée. Want to split it? It’s probably enough for one normal person or two really desperate ones.”
“I’m good, but thanks.” Zeppelin smiled, leaning against the counter with easy grace. “You go ahead.”
Preston shrugged and tore open the box, sliding the plastic tray into the ancient microwave. The appliance rocked precariously on the counter when he closed the door, forcing him to steady it with one hand while he punched in the time with the other.
It had clearly seen better days, possibly during the previous administration, and made an alarming grinding noise as it started.
“Should it sound like that?” Zeppelin asked.
“Probably not,” he admitted, patting the microwave like it was a loyal but elderly dog. “Previous tenant left it. I think it’s possessed, but it still works, so...”
The coffee finished brewing, and Preston filled the dog mug and Mason jar while his dinner rotated inside the temperamental microwave. He handed Zeppelin the jar, their fingers brushing in the exchange. Preston quickly pulled his hand away, focusing intently on stirring cream into his own coffee.
Three minutes later, with steaming coffee and a questionable-looking meatloaf, they migrated to the living room, settling on opposite ends of the couch. Preston balanced his plate on his knee, suddenly aware of how quiet the room was without a TV to provide background noise.
“So,” Preston began, blowing across the surface of his coffee, “what brought you to Crimson Hollow?” Great. Now Preston sounded like he was conducting an interview.
