Page 25 of Cohen's Control

I swallow and manage a nod, hoping my face isn’t flush. A few paces down and Cohen is pulling open the coffee house door and waiting for me to enter. Once we’re inside, he places his hand on the small of my back. His fingers don’t stray—no pinky grazing my ass or anything like that. It’s meant to guide only, to offer comfort even maybe.

We blink up at the menu and after a moment passes, he looks down to me, eyes flitting between mine. “What would you like? I can order and you can choose whichever table you like.”

I stare at him a moment, his blue eyes patiently on me, awaiting my reply.

“Um, I like my coffee black, and a lighter roast. And virtually any baked good. I have a huge sweet tooth.”

He tips his head in a half nod. “Okay.”

Turning, I survey the little coffee house. I’ve not been here before but mostly because I’d been a little afraid to venture outside Crave, especially alone. The few close friends I had—well, it turns out I didn’t have them after all. After I left Pete and quit Jizzabelle, they never returned a single call. I had no one to get coffee with, no one to peruse stores or pick out candles I don’t need, buy throw pillows I’ll never use. And I’d been too anxious to do it alone.

I pick a small table with only two seats across from one another, and take a seat. Plants line the windowsill nearby, and I reach out to feather a leaf between my fingers. This place is brimming with life—between freshly brewed caffeine, a sea of plants and sweets—it’s a perfect slice of happiness, inside these four walls.

A minute later Cohen appears, lowering a big white styrofoam coffee cup to the table. Next he sets down a pink pastry box.

“I bought a few things, so you’d get something you wanted. You can take the rest home,” he says, taking a seat across from me after getting his own coffee from the counter. The barista perches on the counter, engrossed with her phone, leaving us in the quiet shop. Alone.

“Thank you. Thank you for breakfast and also, thank you for driving me home and checking in on me. And I know I said I’m sorry for asking you to leave but I just want you to know, I am sorry. I was frustrated with… well, myself I guess, and I took it out on you.” I pull the pink box open so the apology doesn’t seem like a big deal. My mouth waters at the array of assorted pastries resting inside. My nose fills with sugar and heaven as I assess the goodies. A bear claw, a cinnamon roll, a glazed donut, and a large blueberry muffin. Plucking the bear claw from the box, I take a bite and finally meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to keep thanking me or apologizing,” he says, pulling some napkins from the metal dispenser on the table. He reaches forward, placing an unfolded napkin beneath me just in time for a slivered almond to plunk down on it.

“Thanks,” I say, which earns me a hint of a smile from Cohen, and his tiny smile makes me grin. “I mean for the napkin.”

He takes a sip of his lidless coffee, and I notice he takes his black, too.

“My therapist says I’m used to people pleasing as a trauma response, so, yeah.” My cheeks burn with my stupid admission. And starting a sentence off with “my therapist says” is not the vibe. I bite into the bear claw again, just to fill my mouth.

I’m about to go in for another bite when I stop, bear claw hovering close to my lips when he simply asks, “Are you in danger?”

Carefully, I set the pastry down and take a slow sip of my coffee. I don’t hate that he asked that, more so, I hate that he’s known me a singular fucking minute and already has valid reasons to ask.

“I asked Augustus about you, I want you to know that. I don’t want you to hear that from someone else—I asked him about you because the man on the phone—”

“My ex,” I interject, head a bit woozy from the fact that this man whom I barely know has shown me more kindness in two weeks than my ex did for two years. And it has nothing to do with what sex I can give him, or what scenes I’m willing to do, what deals I’ll make nice and fat with my name and popularity.

“I asked Augustus because he seems to know everyone thoroughly and… I wanted to make sure you’re not in danger,” he explains, twisting the button beneath the collar of his plaid shirt. “I kept thinking about your phone ringing, and the tone in Pete’s voice.”

My throat goes dry at the mention of his name, and like most poisons, as soon as I process that he knows Pete is my ex, my insides roil with sickness and shame. My defenses rise, because that’s what I do when I feel ashamed; I defend and deflect.

“I’m at Crave now. And I’m single. I want to leave the past in the past.” I take a sip of my coffee through a locked jaw, trying to temper my reaction. Everything about Cohen is candid and real, from the eye contact to the respect he shows me and all the small things in between. He’s not trying to snoop. But it’s embarrassing, having been with Pete.

“Understood,” he says simply, not meeting my attitude with anything but kindness.

He cares. And he barely knows me.

My fingers stroke down the cup over and over as I study my hands, willing the flush and heat in my neck and face to die down. To prove to us both that the mention of my ex and the past won’t throw me into some emotional tailspin.

Cohen clears his throat. “How long did you work at Jizzabelle?”

“Two years, give or take a few months.”

He nods. “I’ve been at Crave nearly four years.”

“What did you do before Crave?” I’m grateful he’s steered us easily from the bumps, that he picked up on the fact that I needed a diversion.

I hadn’t realized how large and dominating his hands are until he wraps one around his cup, dwarfing it. Something low in my belly awakens, a familiar sizzle I haven’t felt in some time as I hold his gaze.

“Same kind of job just… across the country.”

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