Page 2 of A Box of Wishes
His own breakfast wasn’t so easy to find. His cupboards were bare. So bare, he’d gone to bed without dinner the previous night. He needed to go shopping before he headed home, or at the very least pick up a kebab or a pizza on the way.
His stomach growled in agreement. Ben ignored it. Not having a cup of tea to start the day with was worse.
Keith had never failed to wake Ben with a cup of tea. It had been one good thing—towards the end, the only good thing—about living with him. It had also kept Ben from throwing the cheating sod out long after he should have.
Ben pushed the memories away and returned to his bedroom to get ready for the day. Finding food wasn’t difficult. His daily commute passed a supermarket, a petrol station, and a couple of coffee shops.
The real problem was finding a decent cup of tea.
The stuff in the station canteen was stewed-to-death undrinkable, and he hadn’t yet sunk so low that he’d consider coffee an adequate substitute. He added milk to his mental shopping list, mourning the loss of milk floats and the clink of bottles in the early morning air.
Christmas was a fortnight away, and the weather matched his mood. A thin layer of frost covered his car and thick clouds hung low, muting the glow from the streetlights. The damp chill bit at his exposed skin, reminding him of his time in uniform, patrolling the streets of Manchester. Cold, damp days were the quieter times on the beat. People who had the chance to stay indoors did so.
Ben had found the same pattern when he’d moved across the country to be with Keith, and when he’d switched from uniformed officer to plain clothes detective. The workload hadn’t changed—far from it—but his hours had been a little more predictable, and he had loved the work. Then Keith had left, and Ben—confidence shaken—had traded dealing with people for dealing with data. Facts had no agendas and didn’t lie.
For a while after the breakup he’d become a recluse, a loner who spent his time at work dealing with facts, and his time at home cuddling with his cat. Now the lure of facts alone was waning. People and their problems drew him once more and Ben wondered what he had on his desk that might hold his interest. The monthly crime statistics… He made a face. Finding new leads in that dreary stack of misdemeanours wasn’t likely. He usually had better luck picking up one of the longer-running cases for review. Fraud cases were intricate, with many strands to unravel. He was good at prising out new leads, so—
His phone rang.
“Hobart.”
“We’ve had a report of a break-in at a coffeehouse in Rothcote. Can you head over there and take point?”
Seemed they were short-staffed again. Or the patrols were all out dealing with other shouts. A hint of excitement warmed Ben’s mind. Hadn’t he just wished for something less predictable than facts? And Rothcote was on his way, even if skirting the town was faster than driving up the High Street and stopping at each of the four traffic lights.
“I can be there in a few minutes. What’s the address?”
He found Top o’ the Morning just off the High Street in a small courtyard that also housed a knitting shop, a store selling fishing rods, a hairdresser, and a furniture arcade. Festive decor brightened each shop window, and a large Christmas tree, decorated in white except for one red bauble, occupied the centre of the square.
Should he celebrate Christmas? He could buy a treat or two for Morris, wrap them, and arrange them under a tree. Or was it pathetic to—
Negative, defeatist thoughts were common after a long night spent near sleepless. Ben acknowledged them, then put them aside. He was here to work. Contemplating Christmas trees could wait.
Golden light spilled from the coffeehouse’s windows along with the enticing scent of freshly baked goods, and Ben’s stomach woke up and roared its displeasure.
Inside, the scent of warm bread twined with the aromas of sugar, vanilla, and cinnamon and made his mouth water. Almost as much as the man behind the counter.
Ben stopped in his tracks. Blinked. Had he just…?
He had.
In his defence, he’d have to be blind to ignorethisman.
The barista wore a dark green apron over close-fitting black jeans and a long-sleeved top. He was slight, with warm brown eyes, a mobile mouth, and shoulder-length auburn hair that he’d pulled back into a tight tail. And the mirror running the length of the wall behind the bar showed him to be just as decorative from the back as he was from the front.
“Good morning, sir,” he greeted when Ben reached the bar. “How do you like your caffeine?”
“What?”
The man gestured, lips stretching into a welcoming smile. “You’re up early and barely awake. How do you like your caffeine?”
“You reported a break-in,” Ben said. “I’m DS Hobart, Northamptonshire Police.”
The smile grew a little wider. “I knew you weren’t one of my regulars. Thank you for coming so quickly. Now, before you ask me all your questions, can I offer you breakfast?”
Ben stared longingly at the ham and cheese croissants that must have come out of the oven not long since. His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t just skipped breakfast, but dinner, too. First things first, though. “Would you have tea?”
“Of course. Grab a seat. I’ll bring it right over.”
