20. Scarlett #3
Running into a platoon of Arabella Aster’s soldiers while I’m all alone, without underwear, and so clearly disliked by the woman they take orders from, is not a smart plan.
Instead, I sneak into the family’s kitchen and spy the coffee pod machine perched in the corner of a glistening stone countertop.
Nerves threaten to make me puke. Fear of getting caught makes me reconsider my stance on asking Sebastion the stories behind his ink.
But the coffee machine is right there, and not a single soul loiters in the kitchen.
I see no guards in the hall, nor do I hear the clang of pots and pans in whatever other kitchen cooks use to prepare breakfast for the masses.
I’m all alone, and if I’m expected to make smart decisions today—like shooting Sebastion, stealing his gun, and running away to freedom—then I need coffee.
Swallowing the slick in my throat, I tiptoe across the threshold and snatch a mug from a stack drying on the sink.
None of the mugs are uniform, none match, some are chipped, and the one in my hand is a dark, dirt brown, thicker than the average mug, and with a deep beehive-esque pattern etched into the ceramic.
I search desperately around the coffee machine for a pod to jam in the top, but this is not nearly as simple as finding the mugs, so I pull a drawer open, prepared to search them all, only to hit the jackpot on my first attempt.
I find dozens, perhaps hundreds of different flavored pods.
Selecting an extra strong coffee, I close the drawer, lift the latch on top of the machine, slip the pod into place, close the latch once more, then I tap the blacked-out control panel and thank the universe when this one literally gives me the option to START.
Yes friggin’ please.
I set the mug under the spout and wait for the machine to start brewing. Peeking back in the direction I came, I silence my breathing and prick my ears… waiting… listening… hoping against all hope Arabella Aster doesn’t enjoy her morning coffee at five-forty-three a.m.
It takes only a few beats of my heart, four to be precise, before hot water makes its way through crushed beans and the scent of rich, strong coffee permeates the air. Twenty-something beats after that, the machine beeps and announces completion, so I sweep up the mug and bring it to my lips.
“I’m not saying you can’t use that mug, but—”
“Argh!” I spin and slam my back to the counter, burning my hand as coffee sloshes over the side of the cup.
Hissing and jolting, which only leads to more spilled coffee, I whimper and lock eyes with that man from last night.
The older one, though not old by any standards.
The one who stood with Arabella. The one whose lips are shaped exactly like Sebastion’s.
“Sorry.” Paul Jameson folds his arms and settles with his muscular shoulder against the door frame.
He crosses his ankles and looks me up and down with a smile I know for a damn fact DNA passed down to his son, too.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I was just saying…
” He tips his chin in my direction. “I’m not saying you can’t use that mug. But it’s my wife’s favorite, so—”
“Jesus!” I rush to the sink and tip my beloved coffee out.
I didn’t get to drink a single sip. Barely even got to sniff it.
Flipping the faucet on and rinsing the beehive mug, I make damn sure I clean every single drop of coffee from the inside and out, then I set it exactly where I found it and turn back to the man.
But this time, he’s inside the room instead of in the doorway, settled against the counter opposite mine with his arms folded across a broad chest.
He chuckles, soft and throaty. Quiet, like he, too, would rather not wake anyone else. “You’re jumpy, huh?”
Ya fucking think?
“You can use the black mug.” He tilts his chin toward the drying pile. “No one uses that. No one would care if you borrowed it.”
If no one uses it, why is it on the drying rack?
“I-I’m good.” I inch to my right, skirting the counter if only to maintain distance between that man and myself. “I’ll get out of your space and—”
“Please stay.” He drops his hands, nixes his taunting smile, and wanders across to the coffee machine I’ve already abandoned.
Picking up the black cup and setting it beneath the spout, he peeks inside the top of the machine, opens the drawer and takes out another of the same pod I already used, then he starts the machine and replaces what I already threw away.
“Don’t run away, Ms. Castro. I won’t hurt you.
I won’t even interrogate you, though I know my wife intends to. ”
“Oh, well…” I swallow the lumpy nausea stuck in the base of my throat. “That’s, uh…” Wow. “Thanks for the warning.”
He chuckles. When the machine beeps, he grabs the newly filled mug and brings it to the table in the middle of the room.
He doesn’t hand it to me, doesn’t even pretend to try.
He simply sets it on a stone coaster, meets my eyes for a long beat, then he backs away, selects another mug, and repeats the process.
Not the beehive mug.
“Sit, Scarlett.”
“No, I—”
“I insist,” he orders. “Drink your coffee. Spend time with me.”