21. Mara
Mara
The last customer leaves just after five, the bell over the door jingling a final, exhausted farewell.
The café is a disaster zone. Tables are sticky, the floor is a mosaic of melted snow and salt, and the air feels heavy with the ghosts of a hundred conversations and the scent of burnt coffee.
My back screams, my feet ache, and I think if I never see another espresso machine, it will be too soon.
I'm staring at the mountain of dirty dishes, wondering where to even begin, when Leo appears at my side with a mop already in his hand.
"Come on," he says, his voice soft but firm. "Let's get this done so we can collapse."
I don't have the energy to argue. I grab a bucket and a rag, and we work in a comfortable, quiet rhythm.
The squeak of the mop against the old linoleum and the slosh of water in the bucket are the only sounds.
He moves with an easy grace, even when he's exhausted, his long limbs making short work of the floor.
I had braced for the day to be a special kind of hell, a trial by fire I'd have to endure alone. But with Leo here, it was… different. Easier. He was a buffer, a loud, cheerful shield between me and the world of impatient customers and endless orders.
"I'm starving," he declares, propping the mop against the wall. "I'm going to make us some sandwiches."
"I'm not really hungry," I say, the words coming out automatically. My stomach has been a knot of nerves and low-grade cramps all day, though the pain is duller now, a distant echo of yesterday's agony.
He just shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. "Okay."
Leo starts whistling, a cheerful, tuneless melody that fills the empty café as he pulls ingredients from the fridge. The sound is surprisingly comforting. I watch him for a moment, the way his shoulders move under his T-shirt, the blond curls falling into his eyes.
The skin under his eyes is bruised with a lack of sleep, and the smile he wears doesn't quite erase the lines of fatigue etched around his mouth. He looks completely worn out, but he's still here, still trying to take care of me.
"Fine. I'll eat," I say, my voice softer than I intended. "But if you switch to bacon cheeseburgers, I might change my mind."
He stops whistling and turns to look at me, a full, genuine smile spreading across his face, reaching his tired eyes. "Perfect."
He works with a focused energy, pulling out ground beef, slicing onions, and slapping patties onto the hot griddle with a satisfying sizzle.
The smell that fills the air is divine—savory meat, caramelizing onions, and the smoky scent of bacon.
It's the first thing all day that has truly made my stomach take notice.
I pour myself a glass of water, the cool liquid a balm against my dry throat.
A few minutes later, he slides two plates onto the counter, each bearing a perfect bacon cheeseburger, oozing with melted cheddar and nestled in a toasted brioche bun. We sit side by side on the stools, our shoulders almost touching, and eat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes.
"These are amazing," I say after my first bite. The flavors explode in my mouth—juicy beef, salty bacon, sharp cheese.
He chuckles, a low, warm sound. "Thanks. At least I did something right today."
I pause, my burger halfway to my mouth. "What do you mean?"
He takes a sip of his soda, his gaze fixed on the counter. "I don't know. It just feels like I'm walking a tightrope with you, Mara. Like one wrong word and you're going to bolt. Something's been bothering you all day, and I just… I can't tell what it is."
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are." The sarcasm in his tone is unmistakable.
He leans in, his thumb gently swiping at my chin. I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs. I watch his face, his eyes focused on my skin. "You've got a little…"
"Don't," I say, my voice barely a whisper. I pull back, the brief touch sending a jolt of electricity through me that feels both wonderful and terrifying.
He puts his burger down, his expression turning serious. "Spill."
And just like that, the words come tumbling out, a messy, juvenile accusation I can't stop. "You shouldn't flirt with me when you have a girlfriend."
He almost chokes on his soda, his eyes wide with shock. "Girlfriend?"
"Your date," I respond, my face flushing with heat. The words hang in the air between us, sounding petty and childish to my own ears. I feel incredibly stupid, and I focus intently on my burger, as if it holds the secrets of the universe.
He looks at me for a couple of long, silent moments. The café feels unnervingly still. "For the record," he says finally, his voice low and careful, "that was not my girlfriend. That was a friend."
"You smell like her," I say, the words escaping before I can bite them back. Why can't I just shut up?
He blinks, then lifts the collar of his shirt and sniffs it, a comically puzzled expression on his face.
A slow, dawning realization spreads across his features, followed by a flicker of something that looks dangerously like amusement.
"So that's what's bothering you," he says, a grin tugging at his lips. "You're jealous."
"No," I say, way too quickly. I shove the rest of my burger into my mouth and slide off the stool. "I'm… I'm heading up for a bit."
He stops me, his hand gently wrapping around my wrist. "Wait. Mara, wait." He lets go, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. "I smell like her because I spent all night giving her skiing lessons. That's all."
I give him a look, a clear, unspoken "I don't believe you for a second." It's too convenient.
His smile fades, replaced by a sigh. He runs a hand through his messy hair, looking suddenly vulnerable. "Okay. Look. Yes. I have… I have slept with her before. But it was a one-time thing. It meant nothing."
"Why?" I ask, the word slipping out before I can stop it.
Why are you telling me this? Why the hell do I care?
He looks at me, really looks at me, and the exhaustion in his eyes is replaced by something else, something intense and raw. He takes a step closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Because I can't get a different girl out of my mind," he says, his gaze holding mine. "Because every time I try to flirt with a new girl, I just end up comparing them to you, and they always, always come up short."
He cups my cheek, his palm warm and rough against my skin. The touch is gentle, questioning. And then he leans in and kisses me.
It's not a collision like the one with Daniel.
It's soft, tentative, a sweet, searching question.
His lips are warm, and they taste of salt and bacon and something that is uniquely, undeniably Leo.
And for the first time all day, the tightrope snaps, and I feel myself falling—not into a pit of anxiety, but into something warm, and terrifying, and wonderful.
The kiss doesn't end. It deepens, shifting from a gentle question to a confident, consuming answer.
His lips move against mine with a slow, sure rhythm that sends a current straight through me.
One of his hands slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, holding me in place not with force, but with a quiet insistence that makes my knees weak.
He pulls back first, just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. Our breath mingles in the space between us, a shared, ragged puff of air.
"Fuck," he whispers, the word a raw, reverent sound.
My heart is racing so fast it feels like a trapped bird trying to beat its way out of my chest. Each thump is a frantic drum against my ribs that's both terrifying and exhilarating. And then, without my permission, the words spill out, a confession born of the dizzying whirlwind he's created.
"I kissed Daniel."
I expect him to stiffen, to pull away, for that easygoing smile to vanish and be replaced by the hard line of jealousy or anger. But he doesn't. He just lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his thumb stroking the skin behind my ear.
"I know, baby," he says, his voice a low, gentle rumble that vibrates through my skull. "You almost drove him mad with it. I get why."
His understanding is a disarming blow. It's not what I expected, not what I'm used to. There's no accusation, no possessiveness. Just acceptance. And it makes me want him more.
He leans in again, but this time his lips don't find mine. They brush against my jaw, then trail down to the sensitive skin of my neck. He doesn't bite or suck, just brushes his lips over me, over and over again, a soft, repetitive caress that makes a whimper catch in my throat.
It feels so good. The sensation is a warm, spreading heat that chases away the last of the feverish chill, loosening knots of tension I didn't even know I had.
"This is getting complicated," I manage to say, my voice thin and breathy. I try to muster the will to push him away, to create some distance, but my body betrays me, arching into his touch.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, and a slow, lazy smile spreads across his face. It's genuine, crinkling the corners of his tired eyes.
"You know, I climbed this mountain once, in the Andes.
Cerro Aconcagua." He pauses, his gaze distant for a second, as if he's seeing the peak right there in the middle of the café.
"It was the hardest thing I've ever done.
The air was so thin it felt like breathing glass.
Every step was a fight, and the ice was so slick you couldn't trust your own feet. I wanted to turn back a hundred times."
I frown, confused by the sudden shift in topic. "Why are you telling me this?"
His smirk returns, but it's softer now, more intimate. "Because I'm not afraid of hard things, Mara."
And that's it. That's the thing that breaks me.
His quiet declaration, a mountain metaphor.
I surge forward, crashing my lips against his this time.
I'm the one who initiates, the one who deepens the kiss, pouring all my confused, jumbled feelings into it.
He responds instantly, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The press of his hard chest against my nipples sends a jolt through me, a sharp, pleasurable sensation that makes the dull cramping in my stomach dissolve.
It doesn't hurt. It feels good. The pressure is firm, solid, but it's not overwhelming.
It's not the all-consuming, possessive demand of an Alpha that makes me feel like I am being consumed. This is… grounding.
Maybe this is what I need. A Beta to take care of my needs, to meet my fire with his own without trying to extinguish it.
He pulls me in even tighter, his hands sliding down to cup my ass, lifting me slightly onto my toes. The movement is confident, sure, and I kiss him back with a newfound hunger. I trail my lips along his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath my tongue, tasting the salt on his skin.
It's all amazing. The scent of him, the feel of him, the way he holds me like I'm something precious but not fragile. It is all so, so amazing.
He pulls back again, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrors my own. "I'm really glad I did that," he says huskily.
"Me too," I whisper, and it's the truest thing I've said all day.
He takes a deep breath, as if trying to regain some control.
"I don't want to push this further, Mara," he says, his thumbs tracing circles on my hips.
"Not because I don't want to. God, I do.
But I'm sleep-deprived and exhausted, and all I can think about is kissing you.
And if I stay here one more minute, I'm going to beg to fuck you right here on this counter. "
His words are blunt, raw, but they don't send me into a spiral. There's no threat in them, only a raw, honest admission of need.
Why doesn't his need for me make me panic like Daniel's did? Daniel's desire felt like a cage door closing, a prelude to being claimed and owned. Leo's feels like an invitation, a choice.
"Okay," I say.
He leans in and presses one last, soft kiss to my forehead. "Get some rest, Mara. We'll… we'll figure this out."
And then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there in the quiet, empty café, the taste of him still on my lips and the feeling of his hands still imprinted on my skin.