Chapter 4 Decaf Betrayal
Decaf Betrayal
Tara
"Two eggs over easy, wheat toast, bacon extra crispy for Mr. Davies!" I call over my shoulder to the kitchen, already sliding a fresh pot of coffee toward booth Four where the Peterson sisters nurse their daily ritual of tea and gossip.
"Just refilled, ladies. Patricia, I told Ruth she shouldn't tease you about your prize-winning dahlias. Everyone knows size matters in horticulture."
Ruth chokes on her tea while Patricia preens. "Exactly! Thank you, Tara dear. At least someone here understands the importance of proper cultivation."
I wink and keep moving, my brain automatically cataloging the room: Table Three needs ketchup.
Mrs. Kline's almond milk latte is ready at the counter.
The new couple in the corner booth—tourists by their matching "I Heart Cedar Falls" sweatshirts—are debating pancakes versus waffles with the intensity of UN peace negotiators.
All perfectly normal. Predictable. Safe.
Last night's "so-hungry-you-could-eat-a-horse" challenge at Mane Street Bistro was chaos perfected. I should be riding that high this morning. Instead, my brain is stuck on replay, dissecting every second of that alley.
Last night happened. The kiss happened. The dry-humping-a-hockey-legend-in-a-dark-alley happened.
Hall of Fame for bad life choices? Nominated.
I feel a flush blooming.
My lips feel swollen. My skin too tight. Every nerve ending is apparently filing a formal complaint about the lack of follow-through.
I slept maybe two hours. The rest of the night was spent staring at my ceiling mirror, replaying every second of Cameron Wilder's mouth on mine, his hands pulling me against him, the way he felt pressed against me—hard and wanting and so perfectly big... And how I literally ran away.
Like a coward. Or a sane person. Jury's still out.
Who does that? Who brazenly kisses a super-hot guy in the middle of an alley—like a starving woman grabbing the first dessert tray that passes—just because she’s frustrated and reckless?
Me. Apparently.
Mrs. Whitmore, the Mane Street Bistro's owner, my boss and my surrogate mother figure, flurries past me, her arms laden with clean coffee mugs.
"Earth to Tara," she calls, setting the mugs down with a clatter. Her sharp eyes miss nothing, especially not the way I'm staring blankly at the espresso machine instead of prepping another round of morning brew.
"You planning on joining us today, sweetheart, or are you gonna make latte hearts at that steam wand all morning?"
I jerk back to reality. "Just… strategizing the caffeine distribution," I blatantly lie, earning a chortle from her.
"Priority status: Mrs. Henderson gets her latte before she starts interrogating the Mayor about property taxes again."
"Good plan. Though if anyone can keep Roy Lewis in line, it's Edna Henderson and her cane." She eyes me, her gaze softening. "You alright? You look like you wrestled a bear last night and lost."
"Just a weird dream," I deflect, turning my back to fiddle unnecessarily with the coffee grinder.
The truth is too tangled.
Taralyn Delacroix doesn't get rescued in alleys by charming athletes.
Tara Haynes serves coffee, blueberry muffins, with a listening ear on the side. That's the script.
Last night is… off-book.
"You know how it is. Just the heat from the kitchen, breakfast rush and all." The clock on the wall reads nine-fifteen AM. "It'll calm down soon enough."
I take a deep breath, pulling the familiar cloak of 'Tara the Unflappable Waitress' around me. Shoulders back, smile ready, memory sharp. This is my stage.
Then the bell above the door jingles.
My spine straightens. My nipples tingle.
Six-foot-four Korean-Danish hockey god, Cameron Wilder, just strides in like a natural disaster in designer jeans—thighs built to ruin a girl's resolve.
He fills the doorway like he owns the building, sunlight striking the sharp angles of his face. Muscles and mischief, dark hair tousled, that infamous grin already dialed up to “charming menace” as he scans the room.
And then there’s the bandage—just a hint of white peeking from his temple. It doesn’t stir any maternal instinct from me. No. What it sparks is a very unhelpful, very specific fantasy: me in a short skirt and a nurse’s cap, playing Florence Nightingale with benefits.
My heart does something acrobatic and entirely inappropriate. And that’s not the only part of me misbehaving.
He catches my eye across the room, and I hold my breath, too excited to meet him again. I wait for recognition to dawn. Wait for that slow, sexy smile that says he’s been thinking about me too.
Breathe, Tara. Stop vibrating. Act normal.
This is it. The moment when his eyes light with recognition and maybe a little heat. When he crosses the room and says something low and private that makes me blush and forget why running away was such a bad idea.
Instead, he winks.
Not a knowing, intimate wink. Not a we have a secret wink.A generic, charming, hey there, cute waitress wink.
He spots an empty booth by the window and slides into it, stretching his long legs into the aisle.
Every female head in the place swivels toward him like sunflowers tracking the light.
Even Mrs. Henderson pauses mid-sip, her sharp eyes assessing him with the calculating interest of a seasoned general surveying new terrain.
He checks his phone like I’m part of the décor.
Ouch. For real? Forget cold shoulder. That was a straight-up frostbite diss.
There’s not a flicker of recognition from him. Not a hint that ten hours ago, his tongue was in my mouth and his hands were mapping every curve I usually kept hidden.
Okay…breathe. Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe the alley was darker than I thought. Maybe his eyes were closed, mine definitely were.
And now? He doesn’t recognize me because I’m a server in polyester, not the desperate jogger in spandex. Different setting, different girl.
Or maybe… I’m just another face in the endless parade of women who throw themselves at famous hockey players. A momentary diversion. A random alley kiss that probably didn’t even register on his radar.
The hurt is immediate. The disappointment, sharp. It's humiliation served with a side of sexual frustration I can't shake.
I feel like an idiot.
Then, he looks up from his phone, those dark eyes—warm as melted chocolate, and that devastating grin spreads across his face. The kind that probably launches a thousand panties into orbit.
"Well, hello there." His voice is a low rumble, like warm honey poured over toast. It does things to my insides I refuse to acknowledge.
“Mind grabbing me a coffee while I wait for some friends, sweetheart? Black, two sugars.” He flashes another grin, cocky and expectant. “Make it strong.”
He leans back, stretching an arm along the booth’s backrest. His gaze sweeps over me—appreciative, lingering on the curve of my hip before snapping back to my face.
Just generic male interest, not recognition.
My smile doesn’t even waver though I want to scream. Or throw something at him and remind him exactly where those hands were last night.
His casual dismissal hits like a physical blow. Sweetheart. Not my name.
The alley kiss—the heat, the desperation, the way I practically mauled him in gratitude—might as well have happened to someone else. Or worse, it meant so little to him, it didn’t even register or he’s choosing to ignore.
Mortification washes over me, hot and acidic, followed swiftly by a surge of pure, unadulterated fury.
How dare he? How dare he kiss me like that, make me feel things I’ve spent years locking away, and then look at me like I’m just another face in the crowd? Like I’m forgettable?
My professional smile freezes solid. Ice crystals form in my veins.
Inside, the carefully constructed wall of ‘Tara Haynes’ cracks, revealing the sharp, wounded edges of Taralyn Delacroix—the girl used to being seen as an asset, a pawn, but never truly seen.
Never remembered unless it served someone else’s purpose.
“Coffee,” I repeat, my voice miraculously steady despite the tremor in my hands. “Black. Two sugars. Will that be all?”
"For now." He flashes his dimpled smile again, holding my gaze. Then something flickers across his face. A moment of confusion, like he's trying to place me. My heart leaps with hope.
Then he shrugs and goes back to his phone.
I turn my back on him. The hurt curdles into something darker, more satisfying. Petty. Deliciously, vindictively petty.
Fine. If Cam Wilder wants to treat me like just another pretty waitress, then Cam Wilder gets exactly what he deserves—a nice, hot cup of disappointment disguised as Colombian roast.
I grab a mug, then—with a furtive glance toward Mrs. Whitmore, busy at the grill—swap it for the decaf carafe. The liquid smells like treason.
Perfect.
I pour it into Cam’s mug, watching the steam rise. Here’s a dash of cold water. Two sugars? Absolutely. I grab three packets, rip them open with unnecessary force, and dump the contents into the lukewarm decaf. Stirring like it’s an act of war.
Enjoy your sugar bomb, superstar.
“Order up for Table Five!” Mrs. Whitmore calls from the pass, sliding a plate of golden pancakes toward me.
“Be right there!” I call back, grabbing Cam’s mug of petty sabotage. The bell jingles again, but I’m focused on my target. Revenge is a dish best served caffeinated… or not.
I deliver the pancakes to Table Five with my best smile, then pivot toward Cam’s booth. He’s scrolling on his phone, looking effortlessly gorgeous and completely relaxed. The sight fuels my resolve.
I walk the travesty of a beverage with meticulous care, my movements sharp, precise. The decaf smells like betrayal. The excessive sugar feels like justice. I place the mug on the table with a decisive clink, sliding it towards him with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“Here’s your coffee, Sweetheart.” My smile could freeze hell.
Let’s see how Mr. NHL likes his sugar-rushed edge now.