Firefly (Crimson Hollow #4)

Chapter Eleven

FIREFLY

LYNN HAGEN

Chapter One

“Dude, out. Seriously.” Sasha rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Family or not, I’m done with this free-loading crap.”

“Keep talking to me like that and see what happens.” Marcus pushed himself up from the sagging couch cushions, hands balling up.

The coffee table between them suddenly felt like the only thing keeping this from getting ugly.

His cousin had a few inches on him, but Marcus also knew Sasha would just grab his phone instead of throwing hands.

“So, I tell you I got fired, and your first move is to kick me to the curb?”

Marcus had been fired so many times Sasha had lost count. What was it now, six jobs? Seven? Marcus was like that friend who couldn’t keep a goldfish alive. Always some BS reason the rent money was late and, man, the smart mouth on him? That drove Sasha up the wall more than anything.

Crash on someone’s couch for free? Fine. Be a douche about it? Hard pass. How did you live somewhere for free and talk crap to the person you were freeloading off of?

But the real kicker? Marcus was always hitting him up for cash, money Sasha straight-up didn’t have, with that whole “I’m good for it, bro” routine.

By now, Marcus had to be into him for like six, seven hundred bucks easy.

That money was gone. Might as well have set it on fire.

Sasha wasn’t getting it back, and he really needed it too.

His cousin probably hadn’t used it on anything important.

He sure hadn’t spent it to help out around the house or anything that actually mattered.

Sasha sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. He knew he shouldn’t have let Marcus move in, but nobody else in the family would touch this train wreck. Now he saw why. Sasha’s mom and dad had tried to tell him, but he’d gone all soft. Biggest mistake of his life.

Lesson freaking learned. No more roommates. Ever. Period. End of story.

He needed to chill before he said something he’d regret. Getting all worked up wasn’t gonna magically make Marcus land a job or pay him back anyway.

Sasha crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. No way he was backing down this time.

Before Sasha could process what was happening, Marcus shoved a hand into his jacket pocket and yanked out a roll of bills thick enough to choke on. He slapped the wad into Sasha’s palm hard enough to sting.

The front door slammed so hard the windows rattled. Through the living room blinds, Sasha watched his cousin stomp down the driveway, shoulders hunched like he was walking through a storm.

The cash felt wrong in his hand. Sasha peeled through the bills, counting under his breath. Twenties mostly, a few fifties mixed in. His throat went dry when he hit a thousand even.

Where the hell had Marcus gotten a grand? Last week the guy couldn’t scrape together forty bucks for groceries. Now he was walking around with a roll that could pay a month’s rent?

Sasha stuffed the money into his front pocket, the bills making an uncomfortable bulge against his hip. Whatever Marcus had gotten himself into, Sasha wanted no part of it. He grabbed his keys and headed out, already running late for his shift at Cyril’s.

The morning rush hit like a caffeine-starved tsunami. Steam hissed from the espresso machine while the grinder screamed through another pound of beans. Orders stacked up faster than Sasha could pump them out, triple shot this, oat milk that, extra foam hold the dignity.

“Two lattes, one cappuccino, and whatever the hell a ‘dirty chai’ is supposed to be,” Sasha called out, sliding cups across the counter. His boss moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d been slinging coffee since birth.

The milk frother squealed as Sasha worked it, sweet steam curling up to fog his glasses. He wiped them on his apron, leaving a streak of foam across one lens. Perfect. Nothing said professional barista like looking half-blind.

“Dirty chai’s just chai with espresso,” Cyril told him, pulling shots like he was born with portafilters for hands. “Because apparently regular caffeine isn’t enough anymore.”

“Back in my day, coffee was coffee.” Sasha rang up another customer “Now it’s got more options than a luxury car.”

Cyril chuckled. “Stop sounding like you’re old. Only I have that privilege.”

The familiar rhythm of work helped push thoughts of Marcus and his mysterious money to the back of Sasha’s mind. Pull, steam, pour, repeat. The café smelled like roasted heaven mixed with vanilla syrup and that weird burnt-sugar scent that never quite left his clothes.

He’d grabbed a damp rag to wipe down the frother when movement by the door caught his eye. The guy walking in made Sasha’s hand freeze mid-wipe.

Tall didn’t cover it. The man had to duck slightly to clear the doorframe.

Dark hair fell across his forehead in that perfectly messy way that probably took twenty minutes to achieve.

Broad shoulders filled out a shirt that looked soft enough to sleep on.

When he lifted his head and scanned the café, Sasha caught a glimpse of gray eyes so deep they looked forged from iron

The stranger paused just inside the entrance, chest expanding as he drew in a deep breath through his nose. His whole body seemed to relax, shoulders dropping as a small smile played at the corner of his mouth. Guy must really love the smell of coffee. Sasha could relate.

Those dark gray eyes swept the room before landing on the counter. On Sasha. The smile widened, showing a hint of white teeth, and suddenly the café felt about ten degrees warmer.

The man approached with long, easy strides, weaving between tables like he owned the place.

Up close, he was even more devastating. Stubble shadowed a jaw that could cut glass, and was that.

.. yeah, definitely cologne. Something woodsy and expensive that made Sasha want to lean across the counter and get a better whiff.

“Morning.” The stranger’s voice rumbled low and warm, like good whiskey. “Smells incredible in here.”

“That’s the Colombian dark roast.” Sasha set down the rag, hoping his voice came out steadier than his pulse. “Cyril roasts it fresh every morning.”

“Lucky me then.” Those dark gray eyes held Sasha’s, and there was something in the look that made his stomach do a weird little flip. “I’m Quinn.”

Quinn. Of course his name would be Quinn. Probably drove a motorcycle and rescued puppies in his spare time.

“Sasha.” He wiped his hand on his apron before offering it. Quinn’s grip was firm, his palm warm and slightly rough. The handshake lasted maybe a beat longer than necessary.

“So, Sasha…” Quinn leaned against the counter, bringing him closer. Close enough that Sasha could see the flecks of gold in those dark eyes. “What would you recommend for someone who’s had a very long night?”

Was that...was he flirting? The slight tilt of Quinn’s head, the way his voice dipped on “very long night” felt loaded. But maybe the guy just really needed caffeine. Sasha had the social awareness of a brick sometimes.

“Depends.” Sasha grabbed a cup, needing something to do with his hands. “How much of a kick are you looking for?”

“Oh, I can handle a pretty strong kick.” Quinn’s mouth quirked up at one corner.

Okay, that had to be flirting. Right? Or maybe Quinn talked to everyone like they were the most interesting person in the room. Some people were just like that, naturally charming, making everyone feel special.

“Our house blend’s got enough caffeine to raise the dead.” Sasha turned to the espresso machine, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact before his face did something embarrassing. Like drool. “Or there’s the red eye if you really want to see through time.”

Quinn’s laugh was rich and genuine. “Red eye it is. I like a little danger with my breakfast.”

Definitely flirting. Had to be. Nobody said things like that about coffee without some kind of subtext.

While Sasha worked the machine, he felt Quinn watching. Not in a creepy way, more like…interested. Appreciative, maybe. It made Sasha’s hands fumble with the portafilter.

“You been working here long?” Quinn asked.

“Couple months.” Sasha poured the espresso over the regular coffee, the bitter smell making his nose twitch. “Cyril’s good people. Doesn’t micromanage, lets me play my music after the morning rush.”

“What kind of music?”

“Whatever doesn’t make the customers run screaming.” He slid the cup across the counter. “So mostly indie stuff. Some jazz when I’m feeling pretentious.”

Quinn wrapped long fingers around the cup, and Sasha absolutely did not stare at his hands. “Sounds like my kind of place. Might have to become a regular.”

The way he said it, eyes steady on Sasha’s face, sent heat crawling up the back of his neck.

“Sasha,” Cyril’s voice cut through whatever was happening between them. “Take your fifteen. I got this.”

Perfect timing, as always. Sasha glanced at the clock. It was already past ten. The morning rush was winding down, only a few customers lingering over laptops and newspapers.

“You heard the boss.” Sasha untied his apron, trying not to notice how Quinn tracked the movement. “I’m officially on break.”

Coming around the counter, he caught sight of movement through the front window. Across the street, near the bakery, two figures stood close together in conversation. One of them—

Marcus. His cousin gestured sharply at someone Sasha didn’t recognize, a thin guy in a leather jacket despite the warm morning. Whatever they were discussing, it didn’t look friendly. Marcus kept glancing around like he expected someone to jump out of the alley.

“Friend of yours?”

Quinn’s voice, closer than expected, made Sasha jump. The giant had moved beside him, following his line of sight out the window.

“My cousin.” Sasha turned away, not wanting to know what Marcus was up to. That might make him an accomplice by visual association. “He’s…complicated.”