3. Maris #3
Two men. Suits, the expensive kind, tailored, probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Slicked-back hair. Shoes so shiny I can see the window reflection in them from here.
The kind of polished that screams money and trouble, the kind that walks into small businesses and makes threats sound like friendly advice.
One of them spots Grath immediately. His gaze sharpens. Calculates.
"Well," he says, voice pitched loud enough to carry, loud enough for every customer in the café to hear. Performative. Deliberate. "If it isn't the local hero."
Grath goes still. Utterly, completely still. The rag in his hand stops mid-wipe. His shoulders lock.
The man steps closer, weaving between tables with the ease of someone who's used to crowds parting for him. His companion hangs back near the door—blocking it, I realize. Insurance.
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. Doesn't even try. "Vance sends his regards."
The café goes quiet.
Not the comfortable kind. The wrong kind. The kind where everyone's holding their breath and pretending not to listen while listening to every single word.
I set down the milk pitcher. Wipe my hands on my apron. Step out from the counter.
"We're closed for private business," I say, keeping my voice level. Calm. The way I've learned to talk to aggressive customers, the ones who think volume equals authority.
The suit's smile widens. Sharklike. All teeth, no warmth. "That so? Sign out front says you're open."
"The sign's wrong."
"Funny. All these people seem to think otherwise." He gestures lazily at the occupied tables. Mrs. Abernathy clutches her teacup tighter. Gumbo's halfway out of his chair, knuckles white on the armrest.
Grath moves. Not fast, but deliberate. Positions himself between the suits and me. Doesn't say a word. Just stands there, a wall of green muscle and barely leashed violence.
The suit's eyes flick up. And up. His smile falters, just for a second.
"Mr. Vance," the man says, recovering, voice dripping false courtesy, "is prepared to make a very generous offer for this property. Triple market value. Cash. Immediate closing."
"Not interested," I say.
"You haven't heard the number."
"Don't need to."
The second suit shifts by the door. His hand moves to his jacket pocket. Not subtle. Meant to be seen.
Grath notices. His stance widens fractionally. Weight on the balls of his feet now, ready.
The first suit holds up a placating hand, a gesture so obviously rehearsed it makes my teeth ache.
"No need for unpleasantness. We're just messengers.
Delivering an opportunity." He pulls a cream-colored envelope from his inner pocket, thick paper, expensive.
"Mr. Vance's offer. Review it at your leisure.
You've got forty-eight hours to respond. "
He sets it on the nearest table. Mrs. Abernathy recoils like it might bite her.
"Forty-eight hours," he repeats, louder now, making sure everyone hears.
"After that, the offer expires. Mr. Vance will be finalising his plans at the Harborside Development Gala on Saturday.
He'd hate for the rowhouse situation to still be unresolved by then.
Loose ends make for an unpleasant evening.
" He smooths his lapel. "After that, he explores. .. alternative solutions."
The threat hangs in the air. Unsubtle. Deliberate.
They leave.
The door chimes again. That same cheerful sound, grotesquely out of place.
Nobody moves.
Then Mrs. Abernathy stands. Picks up the envelope between two fingers like it's contaminated and marches it straight to the trash. Drops it in. Dusts off her hands.
"Forty-eight hours my foot," she announces to the room. "These vultures can take their blood money and choke on it."
Gumbo starts clapping. Slow at first, then building. Others join. Scattered applause that feels more like defiance than celebration.
I should feel relieved. Supported.
Instead, my hands are shaking.
I turn back to the counter. Resume making drinks I can barely focus on. Muscle memory takes over. Grind, tamp, pull. Steam, pour, serve.
Grath hovers. Doesn't touch me, doesn't speak, just stays close. Solid presence at my peripheral.
The lunch rush comes and goes. Customers file out. Slowly, the café empties.
By three o'clock, it's just us. Me. Grath. Pebble asleep on the windowsill.
I'm wiping down tables when my phone buzzes.
One star review. Posted five minutes ago.
Filthy establishment. Found hair in my pastry. Owner was rude and dismissive. Health department should investigate. DO NOT recommend.
I read the screen.
Another buzz.
Another review. Same account. Different words, same venom.
Overpriced garbage. Stale coffee. Cats everywhere, totally unsanitary.
My vision blurs.
I place the phone down. Press my palms flat against the counter. Breathe.
Grath's there. Somehow. Hand on my shoulder, warm and steady.
"Maris."
I shake my head. Can't speak. If I speak, something's going to crack wide open.
His thumb moves. Slow. Gentle. Brushes my cheek.
Comes away wet.
I'm crying. When did that start?
He turns me around. Both hands on my shoulders now, ducking slightly so we're eye level.
"Breathe," he says. Simple. Direct.
I do. Shaky inhale. Worse exhale.
His hand moves back to my face. Cradles my jaw. Thumb tracing the path of another tear.
"They're just reviews," I manage. Voice cracked. Pathetic.
"They're lies."
"Doesn't matter. People believe them."
"Then we tell the truth louder."
I peer at his eyes. Dark. Serious. Certain in a way I've never been about anything.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My breath catches.
He leans in.
Stops an inch away.
His breath's warm against my lips. Coffee and sugar. His hand still cupping my face like I'm something precious, something that might break if held too tight.
I could close the distance. Should close it. Want to close it.
The door chimes.
We spring apart like teenagers caught by parents.
Nora stands, eyes wide, takeout bag in hand.
"Uh," she says. "Bad time?"