Page 10 of Embers in Autumn
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Coffee sounds good.”
The fog seemed to lift a little as we walked, the market behind us humming with the pleasant burr of voices and clinking jars, the fiddle still stitching brisk notes through the morning. Dean carried himself with an ease that made space for me without crowding me. He kept a step to the street side, hand close enough that if I slipped on the damp cobbles he could catch me, yet far enough that it never felt presumptuous. Gentlemanly. The word rose in my mind, dusty from disuse, and surprised me with how right it felt.
He led me along the square to a narrow street rimmed with brick facades and weathered signs. The cafe sat on the corner like a warm pocket of light. Paned windows fogged from the heat inside. Dried orange slices and cinnamon sticks strung into garlands around the doorway. A chalkboard out front announced the seasonal menu in looping script: apple crumble latte, maple pecan cappuccino, hot chai with cardamom. I read them and felt instantly warmer.
Dean opened the door and held it for me. The bell chimed. The smell hit first, a layered sweetness of roasted beans, vanilla syrup, a little nutmeg. A jazz record crackled from an old speaker near the pastry case. On the wall, copper sconces threw amber pools of light along shelves lined with ceramic mugs and small potted ferns. The counter was a smooth slab of oak, worn soft by years of elbows and conversations. People sat in nooks with newspapers and half-finished croissants, cheeks pink from the cold, hands wrapped around steaming cups like talismans.
“This place is perfect,” I said, the words slipping out before my guard could catch them.
He looked pleased, the corner of his mouth tipping up. “Pumpkin spice latte,” he said, like a promise. “You grab a table. I’ll order.”
I hesitated, because old habits die hard. He must have read it in my face, because he added, “My treat. Unless you would rather…” He shrugged, not pushing. It was such a small thing, that easy respect, but it lay over my nerves like a warm blanket.
“Your treat,” I said. “Thank you.”
There was a two-top near the window, half-hidden by a display of pumpkins painted with constellations. The glass misted and cleared with each drift of warmth from the espresso machine. I set my flowers beside me, their gold heads bright against the tabletop. Outside, the fog thinned to a silvery veil and the square blurred into soft shapes and moving color, the kind of view that makes you feel safely tucked away.
Dean returned with two mugs that smelled like October distilled. Foam peaked in gentle swirls. Cinnamon dusted the tops like first snow. He set mine in front of me with care, as if there were something ceremonial about it. His hands were large and nicked, a faint white line crossing the inside of his wrist. I wanted to ask about it, then told myself not to reach for anything that was not offered.
“One pumpkin spice latte,” he said. “One black coffee for me or I will end up too sweet to do my job.”
“You think sugar could do what fire has not,” I said lightly.
He laughed, low and warm, the sound blooming in my chest. He pulled out my chair just a little so I could tuck in closer, then took his seat opposite. It felt old-fashioned and right.
I lifted the cup. The first sip was velvet. Pumpkin and spice, milk laid thick as cream across my tongue, espresso grounding it all with a dark, comforting bite. I closed my eyes without meaning to. A small sound escaped me, somewhere between a sigh and a hum. When I opened them again he was watching mewith an amused softness that made my stomach dip.
“Good?” he asked.
“Dangerously,” I said. “You might have created a problem.”
“Happy to be an enabler in this one instance.”
We sat like that for a minute, both of us letting the warmth work its way in. He shrugged out of his jacket and the cafe light slid across his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back. There was a steadiness to him that felt rare. At the same time something coiled and alert, like a spring held by a practiced hand. When he looked at me he really looked. Not in a way that stripped me bare, but in a way that suggested he was attentive to what he saw.
“So,” he said. “Tell me about your shop. And the house. And why you insist on surrounding paper with open flames.”
I groaned, smiling despite myself. “You will never let me live that down.”
“Probably not.”
“All right.” I set my mug down and rested my chin lightly on my hand. The steam curled up and kissed my cheek. “The house belonged to my grandmother. I spent summers there when I was little. It was the kind of place that smelled like lemon oil and sugar, and at night the floorboards told stories if you listened. When she passed, she left it to me. I moved in after my… after the end of a very long relationship. I turned the downstairs into a bookstore and kept the upstairs for living. It feels like a pact with the younger version of me that always wanted this.”
He listened the way some people pray. His eyes did not wander. His body did not fidget. He gave me the gift of presence, and the knot between my ribs loosened a fraction.
“I am sorry about your grandmother,” he said. “And I am glad for you that you have her house.”
“Me too.” I touched the flowers on the chair beside me. “I am taking these to her on the way home.”
He nodded, then tilted his head. “You mentioned the end of a long relationship. Only if you want to talk about it.”
I could have lied. I could have said something easy and unremarkable. Yet the air felt kind. The cafe hummed like a safe room. I found myself telling the truth, trimmed at the edges, the way you do when you want to be open without bleeding.
“I was with someone for a decade. We started young. We built a life that looked good in photographs and hurt to live in. He criticized little things until the little things were me. I worked hard. I came home and worked more. He never saw it. Or he pretended not to. By the end I felt like a piece of furniture he disliked but could not be bothered to move. Then I found out he was cheating. I packed a bag and left. I sold the car, used the money to open the bookstore. I have been learning how to be my own person ever since.”
His jaw set in a way that read as anger, not at me, but on my behalf. It was not performative. It sat deep. Then it eased, and he blew out a slow breath.
“You did a hard thing,” he said. “I am sorry you had to. I am glad you did.”
