Chapter Three #3
“Looks promising,” I said as we walked up the concrete and stone steps.
It was a place Allie would’ve loved; like something snatched right out of the cheesy and wonderful Hallmark movies we’d watch together.
The inside was all mismatched armchairs, fairy lights, and chalkboard specials written in loopy handwriting, but it smelled like heaven had been dusted with espresso and sugar and baked goods. The chalkboard menu had things like ‘Maple Latte’ and ‘Alpine Mocha.’
The second Tristan stepped in, the barista lit up. “Tristan Graham! You’re back!”
“Oh?” I muttered, trailing behind him. “You’re famous.”
He grinned, unfazed. “Winery deliveries. Small towns talk.”
“Sure they do.” I crossed my arms. “You just like the attention.”
The barista leaned over the counter, whispering loudly, “Do you have more of that Gewürztraminer this time?”
“Wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.” His voice was warm and smooth in a way that made it feel like he’d aged into his confidence instead of finding it.
I folded my arms. “Gewürz–what-now? You’re basically a celebrity sommelier. Admit it.”
“Celebrity?” He looked me over. “I’m just a guy with a van full of fermented grapes.”
“Mmhmm. Don’t undersell yourself, Winery Guy.”
While he ordered his Very Serious Black Coffee, I eyed the menu. “One almond milk caramel latte, extra whip, and two additional pumps of caramel please.”
He gave me a look. “Complicated order.”
“Don’t mock the fuel of ER nurses. Without sugar and caffeine, society collapses.” I added a bag of trail mix and two chai-spiced muffins for later.
By the time I carried everything to a table, he was watching me with an unreadable smile. “Still the organizer,” he said. “You always had snacks in your backpack in high school, too.”
Heat crept into my cheeks. “Old habits. People get cranky when they’re hungry. And my oldest has always been a bear until he’s fed. After that, he’s much easier to talk with and he smiles a little more.”
It was silly to have popped my son into conversation, but I couldn’t help it. My kids weren’t just my kids – they were a huge part of me. It’s not what I am, it’s who I am.
As we sat down, a woman in her sixties shuffled past our table, giving us the kind of once-over that could strip paint. Her eyes narrowed slightly before softening in delight.
“Well, isn’t this nice,” she said. “You two make a cute pair, Tristan.”
I nearly choked on my latte, words failing to spill out over the rasping and the thumping of my fist below my collar bone.
For a second, something unreadable crossed his face before he recovered with a grin. “Afternoon, Mrs. Harper. This is Anna.”
I stopped coughing long enough to force a smile as a tear snuck out.
“Anna, you look like a lovely lady.” Her voice dripped with the kind of affection reserved for grandmothers as she glanced down to my ring-free hand. “Don’t let this one get away. If I were thirty years younger...” She winked before shuffling out the door.
He shot me a sidelong smirk, maddeningly unbothered.
I stared at him, scandalized. “You could’ve corrected her.”
“And ruin the moment?” He leaned back and his grin turned slow and dangerous. “Besides, the look on your face was worth it.”
“Wow,” I muttered, fussing with my coffee lid as my pulse did something traitorous thanks to the charm in his eyes.
Cute pair. It had been years since anyone had looked at me and thought I belonged in those words.
Tristan chuckled, low and easy, but his eyes flicked toward the window for half a second, something unreadable passing over his face. It was gone as quickly as it came.
He tapped the table between us. “Contract amendment: if we get mistaken for a couple again, you’re not allowed to deny it right away. You must play along for at least thirty seconds. Make ‘em sweat a little over their assumptions.”
I rolled my eyes, but inside... there was a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Flustered. Seen. Intrigued. Not wanting to admit so easily how it could be kind of fun as he had been my high school crush after all, but I didn’t want to seem too eager to accept and hummed and hawed.
Running my finger down the cup to pick up the stray dribble of coffee, I shrugged. “Sure, why not?”
“Wow. Was that a tough decision?” He appeared almost taken aback. Almost.
“Harder than listening to whatever that music you classified as country was.”
“Hey!” There was a look there, for barely a heartbeat, but it lingered long enough that I knew I’d accidentally touched a nerve.
And it had absolutely nothing to do with his choice of music; it had to have been the way I answered, like admitting to being part of a couple, even as a joke, wasn’t something to be excited about.
A feeling I understood too well but having it directed toward him, all it did was cause shame and embarrassment.
The mood dipped, heavy for a breath too long, and I scrambled to lighten it. “So. Winery guy. Do you stomp grapes barefoot like in the movies?”
His grin came back, crooked and teasing. “Only on Fridays.”