Chapter Thirty-Six Max
Chapter Thirty-Six
Max
I hate the Tube. Especially on Monday mornings when the weekend’s filth hasn’t been cleaned away. It’s even more crowded than usual, which is saying something. The stench is a nauseating cocktail of dried piss, stale vomit, and brake dust.
I’d forgotten how much I loathe this morning ritual. After two years with Grayson Livingstone’s private car service in New York, I’ve grown accustomed to a certain standard. One that, unfortunately, the London Tube can’t hold a candle to.
I’m also lucky enough to be standing next to someone’s sweaty armpit, trying my best to avoid touching the poles that thousands of unwashed hands have held. On top of that, wafts of sickeningly sweet floral perfume occasionally infiltrate my senses.
The only reason I’m subjecting myself to this circle of hell is Gemma.
The first day we met is seared into my memory—and stained on my shirt—and I figure if I can follow the course of her usual morning routine and grab her favorite coffee and pastry, I might have a shot at breaking through the ice wall she’s likely reconstructed. A peace offering of sorts.
Is it pathetic that I’ve memorized her coffee order? Probably. But at this point, I might as well surrender to the desperation that’s overcome my body.
I just hope it fucking works.
“Hullo, son. What can I get for you?” the old man asks. His accent is strong—northern Scottish, I think.
“A large latte and…” I scan the pastry selection, trying to recall which she favors. My eyes land on the apricot Danish. Bingo. “An apricot Danish.”
The old man narrows his eyes at me suspiciously before shuffling off to make the coffee and bag the Danish.
I stand back, shoving my hands in my pockets. The paint is peeling off the kiosk like a sunburn and there’s not a single customer in sight, despite the busy gardens. It’s not exactly the establishment I’d choose for my coffee, but this isn’t about me.
He places the items on the counter. The stamp on the to-go coffee cup catches my eye. It’s the same small green faded logo on the cup Gemma spilled on me the day we met, and I know I’ve got the right one.
“Anything for yourself?” he asks, eyes knowing.
I knit my brows together. “How did you know this isn’t for me?”
He smirks. “Lucky guess, lad.”
“Good guess,” I say, impressed. I slip my wallet from my pocket. “What do I owe you?”
“Thirteen pounds.” He bares his crooked teeth in what I assume is meant to be a smile.
I blink, certain I misheard. “Pardon?”
“Thirteen pounds,” he repeats.
For coffee and a pastry? No wonder he doesn’t have customers.
My expression must mirror my thoughts because he barks a laugh. “Aye, I know. I’m as outraged as you are. Running costs have skyrocketed and I can’t keep up. I’d love to charge you less, but I’m almost at the point of closing. Sorry, lad.”
I shoot him a polite grin and pay for the items.
Thirteen bloody pounds. Ridiculous.
It better not taste like it was filtered through a dirty sock.