- twenty three - dana
It’s getting ridiculous.
Alex is here. Again.
I slam the coffee machine shut harder than necessary, inhaling sharply through my nose. This is the third shift in a row where he’s just around.
Not talking to me.
Not acknowledging me.
Just existing in my proximity like a damn phantom—one with broad shoulders, unfairly sculpted muscles, and tattoos that I want to trace with my tongue.
Not that I will.
But he’s there, leaning back in his seat, scrolling through his phone like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s barely even looked at me.
Does he think this is going to work? That I’ll break just because he’s been everywhere I go, walking around our room like some brooding Adonis with his shirt mysteriously missing more often than not? That I’ll just fold and beg him to kiss me because his abs exist? Please.
He’s so wrong.
Still, my eyes flick to him. Just for a second. Just to check. And of course, he chooses that exact moment to stretch, arms going over his head, muscles flexing under the dim café lights. His shirt—damn him for even wearing one today—rides up just enough to reveal the hard lines of his stomach.
I look away fast enough to snap my own neck.
No. No. No. I am not doing this. I will not drool over him. He can prance around all he wants like an off-duty Calvin Klein model, but I refuse to give in.
Then she walks in.
And suddenly, I want to commit a crime.
She’s tall, gorgeous, and wearing what can barely be classified as clothing. A tight red crop top, so low-cut it’s a miracle she hasn’t been arrested, and a matching mini skirt that barely exists.
Her hair is long, glossy, and styled to perfection, her makeup sharp enough to cut someone. And those legs? They go on for miles.
Oh, and of course, the most attention seeking part—her top that's barely containing her breasts.
That even has me staring. They're huge.
Unignorable. Not that mine are particularly tiny, they're okay, but hers?
It's like she was genetically engineered in a lab to make every woman within a ten-mile radius feel insecure.
Is Alex into big-boobed women?
Oh God, what am I turning into?
I grip the counter so hard my knuckles ache.
She spots Alex immediately, and I swear, her whole face lights up like he’s the damn sun. Then she sashays—yes, sashays—over to him, her hips swaying like a Victoria’s Secret runway model. And Alex? He actually looks up.
He smiles. Not that smug, annoying smirk he throws at me when he’s teasing me. No.
A real, actual smile.
I nearly bare my teeth.
What the hell is this? Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she so pretty? And why is he entertaining this?
I don’t even realize I’m gripping the coffee pot like I’m about to launch it at her until my coworker nudges me. “Uh, Dana? You good?”
No. I’m not good.
I’m five seconds away from hissing at this woman like an alley cat and making my territory very clear.
Instead, I plaster on a professional smile. “Perfect.”
But my blood is boiling, and all I can do is watch as Miss Perfect sits across from Alex, flipping her hair, laughing at something he says, and touching his arm like she has a damn right.
I inhale deeply, pick up my notepad, and make my way to their table.
Alex barely glances at me, still lounging back like he owns the place. But she does. And her gaze sweeps over me in a way that makes my skin crawl—like she’s assessing a piece of furniture that doesn’t quite match the aesthetic.
I keep my tone even, my voice level. “Are you ready to order?”
She tilts her head, lips curling in something that might’ve been a smile if it wasn’t so laced with arrogance. “Oh,” she drawls, dragging her eyes down my uniform. “You work here? That’s adorable.”
I blink. Did she—did she just—
Alex exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, still scrolling on his phone, like this isn’t his problem.
She leans forward on the table, tapping a manicured finger against her chin, her gaze back on me. “I don’t know. What do you recommend? Something sweet? Oh! Maybe something basic?” She pauses, fake-pouting. “I mean, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”
My grip tightens around my notepad, but my smile stays intact.
I do not let customers get to me. I do not snap at people, no matter how much I want to dump an entire tray of espresso shots on their head.
Alex finally—finally—looks up at me, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.
Asshole.
But I don’t give him the satisfaction of reacting. I just keep my tone polite, my professionalism locked in place. “Our best-seller is the caramel macchiato. I can have that ready in a few minutes.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “Ugh, too sweet. And so common.”
I breathe in. Breathe out. “Then what would you like?”
She gives me a slow, syrupy smile. “Something unique. But I guess you wouldn’t know much about standing out, huh?”
Okay. Wow.
I refuse to let my fingers shake as I scribble down her order. “I’ll get that started for you.”
Then I turn, my heart pounding, my frustration bubbling beneath my skin—but I don’t let it show. Because I am a professional. Because I refuse to let her get under my skin.
And because if I stay there a second longer, I might just start hissing and clawing for real.
Hell, if I'll ever let that male even touch me now.
. . .
I am burning.
I’ve had three iced lattes. I’ve eaten nothing but cold foods all day. I’ve sat directly in front of the AC in class. Nothing works. Nothing cools me down.
I am still a volcano on the verge of erupting.
By the time I get back to the room, my steps are sharp, my breathing controlled only because I refuse to let this consume me.
The second I open the door, Lord Muffin, curled up in a ball of fur on my bed, pops her sleepy eyes open. She stretches, blinks at me, and then lets out a tiny, lazy meow.
For a brief moment, my fury softens just enough to sigh. My little baby.
Then I spot him.
Alex is there.
Existing.
Breathing.
It pisses me off.
I do not look at him. I do not acknowledge him. I do not spare him a second of my attention because I swear if I do, I will throw hands.
I slam the drawer shut so hard the entire desk rattles. Lord Muffin startles, shooting me a tiny little glare before curling back into her nap.
Meanwhile, Alex just grins, lounging on his bed like a fucking king in his throne.
“Rough shift, sweetheart?”
My fists clench at my sides. “Go to hell.”
He stretches—purposefully, I know he’s doing it on purpose—his arms going above his head, his shirt riding up just enough to flash that damn V-line. “Already there, babe.”
I see red.
“You—” I whirl on him so fast he barely has time to smirk before I walk to hime and shove his stupid, muscled shoulder. “You absolute asshole.”
He lets me push him, barely moving, his smirk only widening. “Elaborate.”
“Oh, you know why,” I seethe, chest rising and falling with the effort it takes to keep from launching myself at him.
“You’ve been everywhere. Every shift. Every class break.
Every damn breath I take, you’re there. You walk around shirtless like a damn cologne ad, acting like you’re not trying to make me lose my mind. And then—”
I shove him again, harder. “And then, you bring her in. You let her put her hands all over you. You let her look at me like I’m some background character in my own damn life.”
His smirk deepens. “Her?” he echoes, like he doesn’t know exactly who I mean. “You mean—”
“YES, I MEAN HER, YOU TOWERING MENACE.”
His eyes flicker with something dark and entertained. “You sound really upset, Archer.”
I shove him again. This time, he moves. But only because he lets me, and suddenly—
I don’t realize how close we are until my chest brushes his. Until his hands—big, warm, unfairly steady—catch my wrists before I can push him again.
And I freeze.
My pulse slams into my throat, breath shallow. His grip isn’t tight, isn’t restraining—but it’s there. Solid. Unavoidable. And the heat of it sears straight through me.
I should pull away. I should.
I don’t.
Instead, I do the worst possible thing—I look up. And he’s already watching me, dark eyes flickering between mine, the smirk on his lips softer now, but somehow more dangerous.
My breathing is uneven. I don’t know if it’s from anger or something else.
He tilts his head, leaning in just slightly. “Tell me something,” he murmurs, his voice all smoke and challenge. His fingers skim the inside of my wrist, featherlight, sending shivers racing up my arm. “Were you jealous?”
I barely have time to react before he adds, lips quirking in pure, insufferable amusement—
“…that I was with my cousin?”