Chapter Two #2
“Pastry recs?” I ask, eyes still on Wes. “Dealer’s choice.”
Aaron clears his throat, grinning as he reaches for the case. “In that case, you’re getting the cinnamon twist. It’s the messiest.”
“Even better,” I say, accepting the bag with a wink. “Thanks, it’ll probably be my new favorite.”
Wes drops something. Doesn’t flinch when it hits the counter, but his knuckles go white around the edge.
Not jealous, huh?
Could’ve fooled me.
I lean against the counter like I’ve got all day. Truth is, I don’t. But something about this is worth the time.
“So,” I say to Aaron, eyes flicking toward Wes just long enough to register the flicker of annoyance in his jaw, “how long you been working here?”
“Couple years,” he says, matching my energy. “Best job in town, especially if you like caffeine and sarcasm.”
I nod slowly. “Two of my favorite things.”
His smile ticks a little wider. “You new around here?”
“Sort of. I’m stationed a few blocks over, the firehouse.”
“Ah,” he says, clearly impressed. “Explains the arms.”
That earns a quiet huff from behind the espresso machine.
Aaron doesn’t notice. But I do.
“Appreciate that,” I say, casually flexing just enough to keep the show going. “I’m Jules, by the way.”
“Aaron,” he returns, offering a hand over the counter. I shake it. Hold a beat longer than necessary. Just long enough.
Wes finally looks over.
His expression’s unreadable, but his stare’s not. Not with that edge to it.
I sip my coffee and meet his eyes.
Hold it.
Let it linger.
Then turn back to Aaron like it never happened.
He’s watching me now, too… Wes. I can feel it, hot and unblinking. Not just annoyed anymore. Curious. Maybe even a little territorial.
Interesting.
“So, what else should I know about this place?” I ask Aaron, making it sound like I care about the answer. “Best pastry? Most underrated drink?”
“The rosemary scone’s criminally slept on,” he says, “and we have a lavender chai that’s weirdly addictive.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
He grins. “Only if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“I might be.”
Wes slams a metal pitcher down. Not hard. Not loud. But deliberate.
Aaron finally glances over his shoulder, then back at me, a little lower now in his voice. “You two know each other?”
I lift one shoulder. “Not really.”
I don’t say not yet.
But I think it.
Because I’m starting to wonder if all this pushing and pulling is just about control or if he’s just not ready to admit how deep that moment really hit.
Me? I’m still tasting it.
I straighten. Tip my cup toward Aaron, holding my pastry in thanks. “I’ll have to come back for that chai sometime.”
He nods, still smiling. “Please do.”
I head toward the door again, pausing just long enough to glance back.
Wes hasn’t moved from the sink. Pretending I’m not there.
Still.
But that pulse at his jaw?
That tells a different story.
I make it a full block and a half before the smug satisfaction wears off and the ache settles in.
The kind of ache that hums just under the surface, low and restless, like my skin hasn’t quite forgotten the way his hands felt on it. Like my mouth is still chasing that kiss, even though it ended yesterday.
My heart’s still kicking against my ribs like it missed the memo. Every step feels like I’m dragging a live wire behind me, still sparking from where he touched it.
Because the truth is, I’m not just walking away from a flirtation. I’m trying to walk away from the feel of his mouth on mine. The heat of his hand in my hair. The way he looked at me like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss me harder or push me off entirely.
And yeah, I’ve had plenty of hookups. I know how to keep things light. Casual. Uncomplicated.
This isn’t that.
It didn’t feel like that.
Not with him.
I lean against the brick wall outside the hardware store and take a long sip of my coffee. Still hot. Still bitter. Still not the thing I actually want in my mouth.
It scalds the roof of my mouth, but I barely taste it. Just another excuse to stay still, to breathe, to replay that moment like it might hit different this time.
Because what I really want? Is the burn that comes from him. That sharp, unfiltered taste of someone who kisses like a dare and walks away like it didn’t wreck him.
Not when I can still taste him.
God, that kiss.
I didn’t expect it. Didn’t plan it. But the second it happened, I knew I was screwed. Because it wasn’t just hot… it was electric. Wild and messy and real in a way that’s not supposed to happen with strangers behind a vendor booth on a sunny afternoon.
It wasn’t just lips and hands and breathless urgency.
It was fingers digging into fabric. Teeth scraping over skin. Breath shared like it was the only thing keeping us grounded.
It was a moment.
One that lodged itself in my chest and hasn’t let go since.
And the way he looked at me right after, like he didn’t know what the hell just happened but he felt it too?
Yeah. That’s the part I can’t shake.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s still thinking about it. Still fighting it. That jaw clench wasn’t for show. Neither was the silence. The pretending. The way his whole body stiffened the second I walked in today like he was bracing for impact.
He felt it.
And if I’m being honest? So did I.
Which means I probably should back off. Give him some space. Let him figure out whatever the hell is going on in that grumpy head of his without poking at it every five minutes.
But here’s the thing—
I don’t want to back off.
I want to know what that kiss meant.
What he meant when he let it happen.
Why it felt like more than just a moment.
And maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Maybe it was just heat and adrenaline and timing.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if he’s just as stuck in that kiss as I am? What if all that silence today wasn’t him brushing it off, but him trying not to fall any deeper?
What if that tension between us isn’t just friction—what if it’s something worth striking again?
I’ve felt sparks before, but this was different. Like a wire snapping loose, something dangerous lighting up right beneath my skin.
I push off the wall and start walking at a steady pace. My pulse is still not steady. It’s too damn loud in my ears. My hand curls tighter around the cup like it’s the only thing anchoring me right now. Like a guy who knows where he’s going, even if he doesn’t quite know why yet.
I don’t have answers.
But I do have questions.
Ones that keep looping back every time I replay that kiss. Did he want it as badly as I did? Was he scared of it, or just caught off guard by how much it meant?
And I’m not ready to stop asking them.
It’s been a few days since our non-conversation at The Brew House and not a word from him since. Even when I saw him across the street yesterday.
I spot him before he sees me, or maybe he already has, and he’s just pretending not to. The set of his shoulders is too still, too deliberate, like he’s holding something in place.
It’s the hat that gives him away, worn backwards like always, like he forgot it was there.
He’s standing behind a folding table at the farmers market, organizing some kind of chalkboard sign next to a cooler labeled Cold Brew Growlers – Ask for Refills.
Just keeps adjusting the angle of the sign like it matters more than the people circling his booth.
A kid runs past with a balloon, a dog lunges at a kettle corn sample, and a woman laughs loud enough to turn heads, but Wes doesn’t even blink. Like the noise can’t touch him. Like he’s already somewhere else entirely.
He hasn’t looked up once.
Which means he knows I’m here.
I take my time weaving through the crowd.
Pick up a sample of honey from one booth.
Chat with a woman selling handmade soaps at the next.
I’m not in a rush, at least, I pretend not to be.
But when I catch a glimpse of Wes leaning forward to pass a drink to an older couple, his jaw tight, eyes avoiding mine even when I know he’s clocked me, I start moving.
His hand brushes the woman’s as he hands over the drink, and his smile is polite but flat. That kind of neutral that feels like a shutdown in disguise. He’s performing. Going through the motions.
And he’s not going to make this easy.
“Morning,” I say when I reach the table, voice light, easy. “Busy day?”
His gaze flicks to mine. Brief. Barely a beat.
“Guess so.”
Flat. Like a door closing. Like if he gives me anything more than that, he’s afraid I’ll wedge my foot in the crack and demand answers.
Just that. Nothing else.
No smirk. No flirt. Just the kind of clipped tone that says I’m still pretending what we did, didn’t happen.
I tap the edge of the cooler with two fingers. “You got any left in there, or am I out of luck?”
Wes opens the lid, grabs a bottle, and slides it across the table toward me without meeting my eyes. “Five bucks.”
I hand over the cash but don’t leave. Instead, I twist the top off the bottle and take a long sip, watching him.
“You always this talkative in the morning, or just with me?”
His expression doesn’t change, but his shoulders shift, just enough to make it obvious I’m getting under his skin. Good.
I lean in a little, hand on the table now, voice softer. “We gonna talk about it?”
Wes doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Talk about what?”
“That afternoon.” I hold his gaze when he finally meets it. “The part where you kissed me like you meant it… and came undone in my hand, then walked off like none of it happened.”
Silence stretches. Tighter than it should be with a thousand people buzzing around us.
Wes’s reply is low, almost a growl. “Wasn’t looking for more than a moment, Jules.”
It hits like a slap. Not the words themselves, but the way he says them, gritty, defensive, like if he says it hard enough, it’ll make it true.
Ouch.
But I don’t flinch.
I nod slowly, lips twitching. “Good to know.”
He looks ready to say something else, but I cut him off with a shrug and a smile that’s not quite as casual as I want it to be.
“I’ll see you around, Sunshine.”
Then I walk off, slow and easy, like I’m not already counting the steps it takes to put distance between us. Every footfall feels too loud, too staged, like I’m acting out a role I didn’t audition for.
The Brew House smells like cinnamon today.
Not the artificial kind either—real, fresh-baked cinnamon.
The kind that hits the back of your throat and makes you wish you hadn’t already had breakfast. A tray of muffins sits behind the counter, warm and golden, and I make a mental note to bribe the barista if they try to tell me they’re spoken for.
Wes isn’t at the register.
That’s probably for the best.
Not that I’m avoiding him. Just… giving space. Letting the air settle a little after our last conversation. The one where he pretended he didn’t unravel in my hand and I pretended it didn’t matter.
Spoiler: it mattered.
Aaron’s manning the counter today, his usual chipper self in a peppermint-striped apron that I’m fairly certain is a leftover from Christmas. It’s May. Which either means Wes hasn’t updated the uniforms since December or Aaron’s committed to the bit. Honestly, hard to say.
I don’t comment on it. Just point to the tray of muffins.
“You’re not about to break my heart and say those are display only, are you?”
Aaron laughs, grabbing a pair of tongs. “Only if your heart’s made of cinnamon and shame.”
“Debatable,” I mutter, eyeing the muffins like they might bite. “What’s in them?”
“Apple, cinnamon, and some kind of secret ingredient Wes won’t tell me. Pretty sure it’s a grudge.”
I snort. “Does it pair well with emotional repression?”
“House specialty.” He grins and bags one up before I can answer. “Want your usual?”
I nod, leaning on the counter while he gets to work.
The place is busy today—muggy air slipping through the open door, soft acoustic music playing over the speakers.
A couple of moms sit at the window bench, sipping iced lattes and wiping crumbs off their toddlers’ faces.
A guy in a zip-up hoodie types furiously in the corner like he’s one press release away from world domination.
And near the back, tucked behind the pastry case—Wes.
He’s not looking at me. Not directly. But I see it.
The set of his shoulders. Too stiff, too still. Like he’s trying not to look up. Like he already has.
Aaron sets my drink on the counter. “On the house if you say something to make Wes blush.”
I arch a brow. “I feel like that’s a trap.”
“Could be fun, though.”
I take a slow sip, let the caffeine coat my tongue. Then I hold Aaron’s gaze for a beat longer than I should.
“That’s the second-best thing I’ve had in my mouth this week.”
Across the room, Wes’s head jerks up like I fired a shot.
Aaron nearly drops the tongs.
I give them both a grin and slide a five across the counter anyway. “For the muffin.”
I take my time turning, letting the words linger in the air like steam off the cup in my hand. Wes is pretending not to look again, but that twitch in his jaw? That subtle shift in his stance?
It’s there.
And yeah, it’s petty, but it feels a little like winning.
I don’t stop walking, don’t even glance at him fully. But I pass close enough to hear the shift of his breath. Catch the flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
That twitch.
That ghost of a smirk.
Barely there. Gone almost as fast as it showed up.
But it was real.
He finally cracked.
And no, I don’t say anything. Don’t make a scene or a joke or turn it into something he’ll have to retreat from. I just keep walking. Quiet. Easy. Like it meant nothing at all.
Because I saw it.
And more importantly, so did he.
He’s not ready yet.
But he will be.