Page 11 of One Night Forsaken

Is it wrong for me to enjoy how nervous I make her? To enjoy seeing her fidget in my presence?

“And what does this gift say about me?”

She gravitates closer and rests her forearms on the table. I bite back a smile as she tilts her head left and right in observation. Her scrutiny is far from uncomfortable. Honestly, Ienjoyher examination. The way it holds me captive. The intimacy—so different from our previous connection. With a single look, she digs deeper. Searches for the unspoken truths in my soul. Will she find them?

She snaps her fingers and I recover from my introspection. I zero in on her and her growing smile.

“You have a gentle nature, but don’t broadcast it openly. And you believe in traditions but are open to updated versions. Modernizing them, if you will.” She pauses and pinches her chin between her finger and thumb. “Do you sip your coffee throughout the day or drink it quickly?”

“Throughout the day,” I answer, mesmerized by her first assessment. Her very accurate first assessment.

“Ah, yes. As I suspected.” I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she holds a hand up to stop me. “A thinker. Someone who likes to simmer over things.”

Personality deciphered via coffee order—unlocked.

This is one of the strangest experiences I’ve had with a woman. Or any person, for that matter. But… her assessment of me, all by what and how I drink in the morning, is spot on. Freakishly so.

Warmth blankets me as I take in another side of her. The sentiment is odd and comforting and harrowing. For the first time in years, part of me wants more than an anonymous fling. More than one night of unbridled passion between the sheets. Just not anything serious. No promises. No attachments. Only sex with a dash of affection.

“Uh… not quite sure what to say.”

“Am I right?” She inches closer, eyes fixed on mine, eager, waiting.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

Leaning back in the chair, she brings her hands to prayer position near her mouth and claps in quiet, rapid succession. Her glee causes me to laugh.

Then the legs of her chair scrape the floor and pop the bubble I hadn’t realized formed around us. She rises and wipes her hands down her apron. I track every move, fascinated by her nervous extroversion.

She was correct in her presumption—or prediction, whatever she calls it. I am a thinker. Always in my head. Processing everything I see and hear. Listening to my instincts.

I assumed it was part of being a good journalist and photographer—my eyes and ears and intuition were always aware of my surroundings. But maybe I’d always had those traits.

I remember hiding behind Dad as a child. Being his shadow when unfamiliar faces filled the room. I’d picked up on every side conversation, every shift in the room. I thought it was my way of knowing when and where to hide, but maybe it was my own gift.

The bell over the door jingles and she looks up, ready to greet whoever entered. She opens her mouth, her welcome on the tip of her tongue, then she snaps her mouth shut. A sudden flush creeps up her neck and across her cheeks. Her eyes widen as her fingers go to her apron strings.

“Shit,” she mutters as she turns to face the opposite direction.

“Lessa!”

I glance over my shoulder and spot a woman looking in our direction, a man at her side with an arm around her waist.

“Double shit,” she groans out, and I can’t help but laugh. She spins to face me, panic all over her face.

“What’s the matter,Lessa?” I tease. In the window reflection, I spot the couple heading our way. More like Lessa’s way. With each heartbeat, her anxiety becomes this massive bubble around us. “Hey.”

Her dilated pupils slap me in the face. “What?”

“Just let them believe I’m a customer. If that’ll make it easier.”

Immediately, her shoulders loosen and she exhales her held breath. “Thank you.”

I open my mouth to respond but snap it shut as the couple reaches us and stops behind my chair. If only I had my own magic ability. Being able to read her thoughts would be a cool superpower. Maybe.

“Will that be all for you, sir?” Voice in professional mode, she pleads with me to play along.

“Yes, thank you.”

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