Page 3 of Sew Matcha in Love
Tasha grinned wider. “Remember last summer, when Zaki helped you and Monty remove my train at the wedding? And that super cute crossbody you made for me with all the pockets so I could carry my safe food and snacks off the ship to the island excursions on our honeymoon cruise? What kind of a friend would I be, when asked if I knew anyone that could help, if I didn’t remind him that he knew the best costume designer in the world?”
“The world? Really?” I held her gaze.
Being Tasha, she was unfazed. “Anyway, Zaki’s on his way to the Coffee Loft with Xavier and Jason for Xavier’s lucky pregame toffee coffee, and I thought you could talk.”
I looked at the girls, staring up at me with big, wide, hopeful puppy eyes. They seemed pretty normal. And not in the slightest overly excitable like their father.
The first time I’d met Zaki Marsch, he’d burst into the Coffee Loft like a whirlwind with his teammates, swiped a hat off one player’s head and tossed it to another. Instead of reaching its intended target, it hit my cinnamon bun, knocking it out of my hand. The bun tumbled down the bodice of my gown and landed in my lap. I still remembered the sticky glaze ruining the delicate lace and beading. He’d been mortified, apologizing in rapid-firesentences while his teammate Xavier—now Penny’s husband—struggled to hold back laughter.
Zaki paid for the dry cleaning and a replacement bun—and sent a box of them to my house the next day—but that didn’t stop him from making a joke of it and calling me Wynna-bun.
And it didn’t stop me from making it my personal mission to avoid him.
I hadn’t been able to look at a cinnamon roll since without thinking of him.
Zaki was loud, unpredictable, and utterlynotthe type of person I would befriend.
And now, apparently, I was supposed to work with him?
And Tasha—one of my very few friends—knew how I felt about him. She’d lured me here under false pretenses.
But—I needed the money. After materials, a custom-designed Kristoff costume could yield a few hundred dollars’ profit.
“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”
“Yay!” The girls bounced, clapping in excitement. They asked what I was drinking and ordered the same. While we waited for Shanna to make their sodas, they shared that they were five and a half, lovedFrozen,ballet,and hockey, and they were living with their daddy now because their mommy lived in Canada and had to have a big surgery.
When they received their drinks, I slid off my stool and begrudgingly followed Tasha next door to the Coffee Loft. It smelled like its usual mix of espresso, cinnamon, and whatever syrup Penny used to concoct Xavier’s lucky “Toffee Coffee.” It wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, the smell should have been comforting, like a cozy blanket after a long day. But for me, sitting here at Tasha’s insistence, it felt like a trap.
I adjusted my faux ermine collar, tugging it higher around my neck and sinking my chin into its softness, as if it couldsomehow shield me from whatever was about to happen. The warm glow of the shop’s lights reflected off the shiny brass buttons on my lavender winter coat, a semihistorical throwback to the Victorian era. Normally, dressing like this made me feel calm, grounded. But today? Today I felt like I’d walked into an unfriendly classroom of popular middle school girls.
“I can’t believe you dragged me into this,” I muttered to Tasha, who was sipping a hot pumpkin spice decaf with a self-satisfied grin.
“You need the work, Wynnie. And you’reperfectfor this,” she said, setting her mug down. “It’s fate.”
“It’snotfate,” I replied. “It’s you and Monty scheming.” I glared at the man sitting next to her. He crooned gibberish to the nine-month-old in his arms, their niece, Melody. The baby completely ignored her mother, who sat between us.
“Same thing,” Tasha quipped. Before I could argue further, the door chimed and Xavier entered. Melody squealed at the sight of her father and stretched her arms out toward her dad.
As Monty handed the baby to Xavier, the door opened again.
Zaki Marsch.No. 87.
The only reason I remembered his number was because it was the same number as my house.
Sure. Keep telling yourself that.
Zaki, a picture of effortless confidence, strode in like he owned the place, flashing a smile and fist-bumping the guys.
He looked … different. Still ridiculously tall and broad-shouldered, the Edge’s alternate captain had an air of maturity about him. Formerly blond and clean-shaven, he now sported a trim, auburn beard, the same shade as the short curls poking out from his pom-pommed team beanie, which did not complement his calf-length wool overcoat.
Sans the beanie, he could have been cast as an extra for a Titanic film.
Arwyn Baughn. Stop ogling. He doesn’t lookthatgood.
He lifted his chin and caught my gaze. I quickly looked away, regretting he’d caught me staring.
I wasn’t curious at all why he’d stopped dying his hair blond and had grown a dashing short beard.
