4. Good Boy
GOOD BOY
Iwake to discover I must have died sometime in the night and ascended straight to actual heaven. The softest sheets known to mankind are wrapped around my limbs, and I’m cocooned in a smell so addictive I want to commission Bath the other half is terrified because that means acknowledging decisions need to be made about what happens next.
Decisions I’d rather ignore and instead cling to the fantasy that I could stay here forever.
That I could make a home for life in Owen’s bed.
The apartment is silent except for the low grumble of the heater coming to life. I wait, hoping for footsteps or voices or Annabelle’s high-pitched laugh to come my way. But nothing does.
Giving up, I squint at the little clock on the nightstand. Seven thirteen. Maybe they’re still asleep? No. Owen said he opens the cafe early and wouldn’t wake me. Which means I’m alone, or at least alone-adjacent.
I inhale sharply and launch myself out of bed before my body decides to become one with the mattress for another three hours.
Shuffling into the bathroom, I handle the essentials, then bravely unlock the bedroom door and poke my head into the hall.
There’s a folded piece of paper taped to the frame, my name written on the front in that same coffeehouse aesthetic script I’d admired on the chalkboards downstairs.
I’d presumed those were done by a professional calligrapher.
Apparently, my bearded baker is a man of many talents.
Inside are two short sentences:
Your clothes are clean in the dryer.
Take your time and come down when you’re ready for breakfast.
My heart does a stupid little skip over the concept of Owen doing my laundry.
My cheeks warm at the thought of him handling my unmentionables—hopefully with less judgment than they probably deserve.
I may have only been on the road a few days, but I can’t pretend they were clean to begin with.
I didn’t exactly pack with care, considering I’d left in a frantic storm; most of what made it into my bag had been manically scooped off my bedroom floor.
The thrilling prospect of clean clothes has me scanning the apartment for the laundry setup, which I find easily in a closet off the kitchen.
My clothes smell like lavender—the one scent I can identify—as I pull them out, still slightly warm to the touch.
I hold each item up to my nose, inhale deeply, then fold them neatly into my bag.
Making my way back to the bathroom, I change into fresh undies and a much better-fitting outfit than the one I borrowed from Owen.
No longer looking like I’ve shrunk three sizes, I get to work on trying to tame my hair into any style other than Disney Trolls.
It’s touch-and-go, but a little water and some appropriated gel get the job done.
It’s not long before a significantly more presentable Finley is blinking back at me in the mirror.
A wave of I-should-do-something hits me hard. I want to repay Owen’s kindness. I don’t have money, as we’ve established, but I can at least be useful. Though I’m not entirely sure if poking around his apartment in search of chores is considered proper houseguest etiquette.
It’s the best plan I’ve got.
I find a full clothes hamper in Owen’s closet and, despite the primal urge to bury my face in it like some laundromat pervert, dump it all into the washer.
From there, I migrate to the sink and tackle the few dishes stacked in it.
I wipe down counters, fold kitchen towels, and organize clutter like a man possessed by the spirit of Mary Poppins.
It feels like the least I can do to return the favor.
Eventually, I run out of excuses to hide upstairs. Which means it’s time to venture down and face the music.
And Owen.
And…apparently, the whole town.
The cafe is night and day compared to how I experienced it yesterday—a full-on bustle of activity.
Every table is filled, locals chatting among themselves, sipping from familiar pink mugs.
I spot a mop of brown curls weaving through the tables, with a tiny apron tied around her waist and a notepad clutched in her hand.
Annabelle stops to talk to a couple, nodding and grinning, scribbling on the paper before tearing off the sheet and handing it to a slightly frazzled-looking Owen behind the counter.
“Thanks, Princess,” he says.
The whole room collectively coos, and warmth spreads across my chest. She makes an adorable waitress.
I slip behind the counter, unnoticed by Owen, but a woman at a nearby table gestures at her mug. “When you have a moment, dear.”
I glance around until I spot a pot of coffee, then cross the room and top up her cup.
“I’m glad to see Owen finally took my advice and hired some help.” She rips open a packet of sugar and dumps it in. “Man’s been running himself into the ground, trying to juggle this place and looking after the little one full-time. It’s important he takes some time for himself. You know?”
I…do not know.
She isn’t speaking unkindly. There’s clear affection in her voice, like she genuinely cares about Owen and his niece. But it’s not my place to gossip, and I definitely don’t have the emotional fortitude to explain I’m not staff, just a stray he’s taken in off the street.
I nod politely and do my best to disengage. “Yes, ma’am. Let me know if you need anything else.”
On the way back, I stop at a few more tables and hesitantly top off their mugs. I’m unsure if this is the sort of place that offers free refills. However, when Owen finally looks up and catches my eye, he mouths a grateful “Thank you,” so I presume I’m doing something right.
I ruffle Annabelle’s hair as I pass her. She barely notices, too busy telling a story that involves a lot of wild, dramatic arm movements. The table she’s talking to looks equal parts entertained and held ransom.
Riding the high of feeling helpful, I set my sights on making a fresh pot of coffee.
The huge machine is a bit more advanced than the single-serve Keurig I’m used to, but after a few fumbles and some grunted, over-the-shoulder pointers from Owen, I finally get things going.
The smell of the dark roast as it begins to brew is mouthwateringly divine, and I make a mental note to fill my own cup once it’s finished.
Owen’s helping the last person in line when I turn back to him.
One thing I noticed while I was refilling coffee is that he takes time with each and every customer, no matter how long the line or how many directions he’s being pulled in.
The town clearly adores him, and the cafe radiates this sense of community you don’t get in big cities.
“How’s Delilah doing?” the man at the counter asks.
Owen’s features soften, morphing into something a little sad. “She’s struggling, but the good days are starting to outnumber the bad.”
The man reaches out and pats Owen’s arm, and Owen covers the hand with his own.
It’s tender. Familiar. Oddly intimate. Though I’m guessing by the way they stand in silent company, they know each other well.
I look away, pretending I don’t notice their eyes flick toward Annabelle, now sitting at the table with the woman I’d served earlier, coloring in her notepad.
“We’re all praying for her,” the man says. “You’ll let us know if there’s anything at all we can do for either of you.” From the tone in his voice, it’s obvious that wasn’t a question.
“I will,” Owen promises, faithfully.
The customer nods, apparently satisfied, and heads out.
My eyes catch the sign on the door as it swings shut behind him—Delilah’s.
The realization wafts over me. I wonder if the cafe once belonged to her—if it still, maybe, belongs to her.
It would explain the more feminine decor.
My lips part around the question, but I catch it on the tip of my tongue.
It’s not my business to ask. While Owen seemed willing to open up about his sister last night, even someone lacking all social prowess like me can recognize that a busy cafe isn’t the time or place.