Chapter 9
LOGAN
Most days, working at the Bean Scene’s an easy shift.
I get to drink my body weight in caffeine, the songs are usually decent, and sometimes people tip me with a phone number scrawled on a napkin—never my type but still kind of flattering.
It’s an easy job, decent pay, and no one cares if I show up a little hungover as long as the espresso machine’s running.
But today, I can’t focus for shit.
I’ve remade the same cappuccino three times because I keep forgetting the foam. The milk’s spitting, the cup’s overflowing, and I’m just standing here, zoning out.
Behind the pastry case, Anoopa looks up from wiping the glass. Her dark braid slips forward when she straightens, the tiny silver stud in her nose catching the light pouring in from the windows.
“You’re off today,” she says, one brow lifting.
“Wow,” I say, dumping the third failed cappuccino down the sink. “You’ve got sharp instincts. What gave it away?”
“The fact that you’ve been steaming milk for five minutes,” she says dryly. “Usually, by now, you’ve hit your quota of flirting with soccer moms.”
I glance at her. “MILFs need love, too.”
She narrows her gaze. “And that’s strike one before noon.”
“That’s your rule,” I remind her. “Not company policy.”
“You’re lucky it’s not,” she says with a laugh. “You’d be fired if it were.”
I snort and lean my hip against the counter, watching her restock croissants. Six months working together, and I’ve learned she’s small, smart as hell, brings a Tupperware of butter paneer on Fridays that always smell better than whatever sad sandwich I bring, and is always—annoyingly—right.
I stretch, trying to work the stiffness out of my shoulders, but my head’s somewhere else entirely.
Ever since last night, my thoughts have been scrambled, drifting to the night after the frat party.
Nathan sitting close enough that his arm brushed mine every time he shifted. His eye roll when I told him he needed flirting lessons, the way his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, the way he freaked out and left when we looked into each other’s eyes and—
“Logan.”
I blink and realize I’ve been staring at the espresso machine again. “What?”
Anoopa watches me for a minute, her thick brows knitting together. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
She gives me a long look, then hums under her breath and turns back to the pastry case. “Maybe drink some water before you pass out.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the concern, Mom.”
She snorts. “I’m literally two years younger than you. And you wish you had a mom as patient as me.”
I crack a smile at that, but it fades quickly, because… yeah. I do.
I let out a sigh and try to focus on refilling the milk jug. It doesn’t work, though, because even with the noise of the steamer, the smell of espresso, and the line of people waiting, my head keeps circling back to him.
Which is ridiculous.
Because Nathan is… Nathan. Human cardboard. Straight-A student. Poster boy for self-control. Painfully straight.
Right?
Except now that I’m actually thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen proof of that.
He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t bring girls home. If someone hits on him at a party, he smiles, turns them down, and that’s the end of it.
He doesn’t talk about girls like Austin does—or did, I should say, before Maisie came into his life—or the way Ryan does when Isabella’s name comes up and he gets that smug look that makes everyone want to throw something at him.
Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t actually remember the last time he mentioned anyone. Not a hookup. Not an ex. Not even a crush.
I frown, my mind rewinding through months of living together, practices, nights out. Nothing.
Not once have I seen him leave with someone.
I haven’t even seen him talk to a girl for more than a few minutes.
I wipe the counter, trying to shake it off, but my brain shifts, wondering what his deal is.
Maybe he’s just private. Maybe he’s too busy with hockey and classes, or maybe I’m just making shit up because I’m sleep-deprived and need to stop thinking about the tight muscle of his jaw when he tenses it.
I drag a hand through my hair and sigh. I need to get it together.
The bell over the door rings and I glance up out of habit, only to feel my stomach drop.
Because Hayes is no longer in my head but standing in the doorway.
He pushes back the hood of his green sweatshirt, shaking out his dark hair as he unzips his black puffer.
For a half second, I honestly think my brain’s playing tricks on me.
But then he lifts his eyes and finds mine across the counter.
Anoopa nudges me. “Psst. You’re staring.”
I don’t answer and before I know it, I step out from behind the espresso machine, wipe my hands on my apron, and step toward the register.
He keeps his eyes on me as he makes his way to the counter, the tip of his nose slightly pink from the freezing cold air outside.
“You work here?” he asks me.
I tug at the strap of my apron. “No, I just stole this and like to stand behind the register for kicks.”
His mouth twitches. “Right.”
He glances up at the chalkboard menu, skimming the list. His hand comes up to rub the back of his neck.
I grab a cup and a marker, because if I stand here any longer doing nothing, Anoopa’s gonna start grinning like she knows something and then I’ll never hear the end of it.
“You want your usual?” I ask.
His brow pulls in slightly. “You remember what my usual is?”
“I live with you, don’t I?” I scribble on the cup. “Black coffee. No sugar. No joy.” I glance up at him and tut. “It’s honestly depressing.”
That earns me a flat look, but I swear his mouth twitches before he hides it.
I sigh. “You’re lucky you’re pretty.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head like he’s not sure why he puts up with me.
I write on the cup, and then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “You want whipped cream with that, sweetheart?”
His brows lift. “Don’t test me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I tease, scribbling away.
Nathan’s eyes flick to the cup in my hand. “What are you writing?”
“Captain No Fun.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’ll pay extra for a blank one.”
“Nope. Too late.”
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like unbelievable, and I grin to myself as I turn back to the espresso machine.
I lean my elbow against the counter, twirling the marker between my fingers. God, he looks good when he’s annoyed. Which isn’t fair, because I’m already trying really fucking hard not to notice.
He shifts beside the counter, and even without looking, I can tell he’s watching me. I try to focus on the machine, but the awareness creeps in anyway.
He clears his throat after a beat. “I thought you worked at that record shop on Sage Street.”
“I do,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “I work here too.” I grab the cup, pour the shot, and swirl in the milk.
When I slide the drink across the counter, Nathan takes it and I glance up, catching him frown slightly. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you worked here?”
I pause, wiping my palms on my apron. “Didn’t think it mattered,” I say, reaching for a rag.
“It’s your second job?” he asks after a couple of seconds.
“Sometimes third,” I say with a shrug, wiping down the counter. “Depends on the week.”
He’s quiet for a long fucking time, just… watching me, keeping his eyes on me while I try my hardest not to look at him.
“Why lie about it?” he asks finally.
I pause and lift my eyes to his. “I didn’t lie.”
“You didn’t tell anyone,” he counters.
I don’t answer right away, mostly because I don’t have a good reason.
It’s not like I’m ashamed of working here or at the vinyl store or picking up random shifts anywhere that’ll take me. I just… don’t feel like explaining it to guys who don’t have to think about it. Who don’t have to check their bank app before grabbing dinner to see if they can afford it.
“I just like keeping some stuff for myself,” I say, meeting his eyes, catching the golden swirls that flash in the dark brown of his eyes.
He lifts his cup and takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyes still on me, and I can’t tell if he’s zoning out or trying to read something on my face. Either way, my brain won’t shut up about it.
It makes me want to move. Or joke. Or do literally anything to shake off the feeling that he’s seeing more than he’s supposed to.
I clear my throat, grab another cup from the stack, and flip it once in my hand before setting it back down. “You want a punch card? Buy nine, get one free. Big savings.”
That earns the smallest laugh, and the sound brings back that fluttering thing in my stomach again. The hell is that?
I’m about to say something else, maybe another dumb joke, when movement at the counter catches my eye.
There’s a girl standing there. No clue when she walked up. Guess I was too wrapped up in the six-foot-three guy in front of me.
“Hi,” she says, smiling. “Can I get an iced chai latte?”
“Sure,” I say, tapping the counter and giving her a grin. “Oat, almond, or regular?”
“Almond.”
“Coming right up.” I toss her a wink because that’s the job—well, partly the job—and my eyes flick to Hayes for half a second before I turn away. He’s still there. Still watching.
I grab the almond milk, pour, shake, add espresso. When I slide the drink onto the counter, he’s in the same spot, same posture, same unreadable eyes pinned right on me.
“There you go, gorgeous,” I say to the girl.
She blushes, pays, and heads for a table by the window and I quickly grab the portafilter and knock out the old puck.
A tiny huff leaves Nathan as she leaves.
I lift an eyebrow. “What?”
He leans an elbow on the counter, watching me tamp down the espresso. “You really flirt with everyone, huh?”
My lips twitch. “It’s how I get tips,” I say. “Can’t have unhappy customers.”
That earns me a low laugh, and he shakes his head.
I clear my throat. “You want a muffin or something?”
“I’m good.”
“You sure?” I ask, arching a brow. “The pumpkin spice ones might bring some joy into your life. Lord knows you need it.”
That gets a faint exhale through his nose, his brows lifting a little. “Do you talk to all your customers like this?”
I shoot him a smirk. “Only the ones I think are hot.”
He chokes mid-sip.
I grab a napkin from the counter and slide it toward him, chuckling under my breath. “Relax. It’s a joke.”
He wipes his mouth, his dark eyes flicking up to mine over the edge of the napkin. “You’ve gotta stop saying stuff like that.”
“Why? It makes you blush.”
“I’m not blushing,” he says, although his cheeks are a little pinker than before.
“Sure,” I say, leaning my hip against the counter, enjoying how stiff his shoulders go. “Tell yourself that.”
His jaw tightens as his fingers tap against the side of his cup. He rips his gaze away from mine and glances back at the door. “I should go.”
“Already?” The word slips out before I can stop it, that small sting of disappointment catching somewhere in my chest.
“You’re working.”
“Didn’t stop you from distracting me,” I tease.
He reaches for his wallet, his thumb running over the worn edge before he looks back at me. “What do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” I tap the counter with the flat of my hand. “First one’s free. The next costs a compliment, though.” I tip my head, just a little. “You remember how to give one of those, right?”
His brows lift, a flicker of recognition passing through his face. He knows exactly what I’m referencing. The couch, the night I told him he needed flirting lessons.
He lets out a quiet breath, his eyes dropping for half a second to my… mouth? I must be imagining things, but before I can process it, he jerks away almost immediately and grabs his cup.
“Thanks for the drink,” he says. “See you back at home.”
“Mm,” I murmur as he steps back, because my brain’s too busy cataloguing everything about the last ten seconds.
The bell over the door makes a soft chime when he pushes the door open, a rush of cold air slipping inside before the door closes.
I scrub a hand over my face, mostly because I need something to do before my thoughts start spiraling. I don’t know what the hell that was. The teasing, the way he kept looking at me, the way I kept looking at him.
I tell myself it’s just fun. I like poking at him, watching him get all stiff and irritated. It’s our thing.
But that doesn’t explain why I wanted him to stick around. Or why the counter suddenly feels too damn empty without him leaning on it.
Anoopa slides up beside me, crossing her arms, her expression already way too knowing.
“So… was he the reason you’ve been distracted?”
I shoot her a look. “He’s my teammate.”
She hums, her eyes on me, a knowing look in them. “He’s hot.”
I snort. “You think everyone’s hot.”
“Uh… excuse me.” She holds her hand up. “I have standards, thank you very much, and that guy is hot as hell.”
I shrug. “Not my type,” I lie straight through my teeth.
She rolls her eyes and turns, heading for the storage room, muttering something under her breath about me being blind.
I don’t answer. I just wipe down the counter again, even though it’s already clean.
Because she’s right.
He’s hot as fuck.
And I hate that I can’t stop noticing.