Chapter Two
THE AVOIDANCE GAME
Jules
I’m still catching my breath when he walks away.
Shirt half-tucked, hair a mess, lips red from mine.
He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t slow down. Just grabs his shirt, mutters something under his breath, and disappears into the crowd like that didn’t just happen.
Behind a booth. In broad daylight. At a town fair.
I scrub a hand over my face and exhale hard. Then glance down.
Zipper? Still halfway undone.
Hand? Definitely not clean.
Heart? Still racing like I just ran into a burning building.
I chuckle, low and winded, letting the tent pole support my weight. My legs feel like jelly. My chest tight in the best kind of way. My mouth still tastes like him, coffee and adrenaline and something bitter he’s not ready to admit.
People laugh somewhere nearby. A kid yells. Music blares faintly from the town square. The fair goes on like the world didn’t just tilt sideways.
I watch it move around me like I’m not standing here undone. Parents shuffle by with cotton candy, teens dart between booths, and somewhere to my left, a woman complains loudly about the line for fresh-squeezed lemonade. It’s normal. It’s loud. It’s too damn bright.
And all I can think about is the way he said my name.
Like he didn’t mean to.
Like it slipped out along with everything else he couldn’t hold back.
There was nothing careful about that kiss. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just hands and heat and the kind of tension that doesn’t let go.
And now he’s gone, vanished into the crowd like we didn’t just press up against each other and lose our minds.
But I felt it.
And I know he did, too.
He can pretend it was nothing. That it was the heat or hormones or one hell of a bad idea.
But I know better.
I’ve kissed enough people to know the difference between curiosity and connection.
And whatever that was?
It’s not over.
Not even close.
I drag in another breath, push off the wall, and fix my zipper. Wipe my hand on the inside of my shirt.
The buzz is still there, low in my spine. That residual thrum of arousal and adrenaline that doesn’t fade just because the moment’s over.
I can still feel the scrape of his stubble against my jaw. The pressure of his fingers when he clutched my shirt like he needed something to hold on to.
That wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t even really sex.
It was something else entirely.
Something wild and desperate and maybe a little dangerous.
And it wasn’t enough.
Not nearly.
I want to chase him down, grab him by the collar, and ask what the hell that was. Why did he kiss me like it meant something? And why the hell did it feel like that to me?
But I don’t go after him.
Because the look on his face when he walked away?
That wasn’t someone looking for round two.
That was someone running.
I should probably be panicking, maybe feel guilty, should definitely be second-guessing every choice that led to me ending up with my hand down some grumpy barista’s pants.
But instead?
I’m smiling.
Because if he thinks that was a one-time thing, he’s out of his damn mind.
Grumpy or not.
Avoidant or not.
That kiss—those hands—that breathless, filthy, unforgettable five minutes?
They’re gonna haunt both of us.
I don’t do casual well. Not when it feels like that.
And sure, maybe I should’ve walked away first. Maybe I should’ve stopped it when he kissed me again.
But I didn’t.
And I’m not sorry.
Not even a little.
If anything, I’m intrigued.
Because that man who stormed off without a word, all scowls and tension and mouth I still feel on mine, he wants me. He just doesn’t want to want me.
And that?
That’s the kind of problem I’m very good at solving.
Complicated. Tempting. The kind I never walk away from.
And judging by the way I’m still smiling?
Yeah. I’d say it’s going well.
“Well damn,” I murmur, more to myself than anyone else. “This just got interesting.”
The Brew House smells like heaven and resentment.
The minute I walk through the door, I know he’s seen me. He doesn’t look up, of course he doesn’t, but his shoulders stiffen just enough to make me grin. That jaw? Clenched. That rag in his hand? Scrubbing the same patch of counter like it personally offended him.
I step up to the bar and lean both elbows on the edge. “Morning, Sunshine.”
A regular in the corner booth glances up at my voice, probably wondering who I am and why I sound like I already belong here. I don’t. Not yet. But I’ve never been great at staying where I’m supposed to, especially when there’s something—or someone—I want.
No answer.
No eye contact, either.
Just a gruff throat clear and an unnecessary check of the espresso machine.
God, he’s cute when he’s pretending I don’t exist.
“Can I get a large dark roast?” I ask, voice chipper on purpose. “Black. Unless you’re gonna spit in it, in which case, oat milk’s fine.”
Still nothing.
The Brew House is quieter today. No town rush, no overlapping orders. Just the hum of equipment and tension. Even the pastry case looks like it’s holding its breath.
He grabs a cup from the stack like he’s being held hostage, The machine hisses. I watch him move, tight, precise, pissed. Yesterday clearly scrambled him.
I should probably let him off the hook. Should walk away, or at least stop watching his mouth like I didn’t memorize exactly what it felt like. But that’s the thing about tension… it’s hard to ignore when it’s this loud.
And I’m not known for being quiet.
“So…” I say, dragging out the word like it’s casual. “Are we doing that thing where we pretend nothing happened? Or are you just mad you walked away with your pants undone?”
The pour stutters mid-stream.
His eyes instantly flick up to mine, fast and sharp, but they don’t stay. He grabs a lid and slaps it on the cup, sets it down without a word.
“Right.” I reach for the drink. “Still not talking.”
He blinks once. Barely. Like I’m a glitch in his system and he’s waiting for me to reset. But I’m not going anywhere. He knows that. Knows me now in a way he probably didn’t expect to—mouth open, back arched, fingers tangled in my shirt like I was the only thing holding him together.
I give him a second. Just in case.
Nothing.
No explanation. No comment. No sass, which honestly? Might be the biggest insult of all.
“You’re not even gonna ask if I came here for you?” I tease, lifting the cup to my mouth. “What if I just needed coffee?”
“You didn’t.” Then mutters, “Like you’d pass up the chance to be annoying.”
Ah. Progress.
I smirk over the lid, I don’t think he meant to say that out loud. “You’re not wrong.”
He shakes his head like I’m exhausting, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away.
It’s not much, but I count it. That twitch?
It’s a crack. And cracks spread if you press the right way.
He walks away before I can say more, disappearing through the swinging door behind the counter.
Probably off to go yell at a pastry tray or punch a bag of espresso beans.
I glance around the mostly empty café. An older woman in the corner sips her latte with headphones in and a paperback clutched in her hands.
The cover says It Could Only Be You, but she hasn’t turned the page in a while, just sitting there like she needs a breather.
No idea what she’s reading, but maybe I’ll check it out.
A man with a laptop taps keys like he’s solving a national crisis. No one else seems to notice the man-shaped storm behind the counter, or the fact that I’m still smiling.
Because yeah, maybe I should let it go.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come here so soon.
But if he thinks he can kiss me like that, then come undone in my hand and go back to pretending I don’t exist?
He has no idea who he’s dealing with—but he’s about to. If he thought that was bold, he’s in for a hell of a surprise. Because he hasn’t seen anything yet.
I lean back against the counter and sip slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to pull his attention. I don’t say anything else. Not until the door swings open again and he reappears, still pretending I’m invisible.
“Thanks for the coffee,” I say as I back toward the exit. “It’s not quite as good as the taste I had yesterday, but it’ll do.”
His hand flexes on the edge of the counter. His jaw ticks. Still no words.
I push the door open and let in the breeze, then glance back one more time.
I let the door linger halfway open behind me, just long enough to let the scent of the café drift out into the street. Cinnamon, espresso, and that warm, toasted thing I haven’t figured out yet. Something about it feels personal.
I make it halfway down the block before turning around.
No plan. No excuse. Just a stubborn itch I can’t shake.
He looked pissed. Not in a get-lost way, but in the kind of way that makes a guy want to test the line again, see how far he can push before it breaks.
So I circle back.
Take my time.
When I step inside The Brew House again, the bell above the door jingles like I haven’t already stirred up enough noise for one morning.
Wes doesn’t look up.
Figures.
But the other barista, short, dark curls, maybe a couple years younger than me, offers a grin that’s all sunshine and curiosity. His name tag says Aaron.
“Back so soon?” he asks, leaning his forearms on the counter.
“Can’t stay away,” I say smoothly. “Place has a certain charm.”
“Or maybe someone in it does.”
I shrug, all casual confidence. “Could be.”
I hear the pause behind the espresso machine. The faintest hitch in Wes’s rhythm. He still doesn’t look at me, but I see it in his posture. The angle of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw.
Aaron laughs, clearly enjoying this. “Well, let me know if you need a refill. Or anything else.”
I flash a smile that’s meant for both of them. “Might need something else to keep my mouth busy while I’m at it.”
Aaron lets out a surprised laugh that turns into a cough. Wes’s grip tightens on the edge of the sink like he’s debating whether to throw something or storm off.