Chapter Five
Britta
I woke up disoriented for about three seconds.
Not in a panicked way but more in a where the hell am I and why does my arm feel like it got in a fistfight with a lawnmower kind of way.
Then I blinked up at my ceiling, saw the little water stain in the corner near the closet that I kept meaning to complain to the landlord about, and remembered.
My apartment.
My bed.
State Street.
And the fact that I had made it through one whole night back home without anything terrible happening? Progress.
Pain still pulsed through my shoulder in that annoying, throbbing, hey, remember me? way, but it wasn’t as bad as the first few nights. Or maybe sleeping in my own bed had tricked my body into relaxing just enough to give me a break. Either way, I was taking the win.
I pushed the blankets down and sat up slowly, pausing when my shoulder protested. The room was gray with early morning light, and the apartment was quiet in that soft, sleepy way that made me think it had to still be pretty early.
I stood and stretched as carefully as I could, then shuffled toward the bedroom door.
The hallway was dim. The living room glowed faintly from the muted TV still playing some infomercial no one in their right mind would ever buy anything from. I peeked down the hallway and saw Swift on the couch.
Sleeping. Well, kind of.
He was sitting up, head tipped back against the cushion, one arm folded over his stomach, the other resting close enough to the gun he’d set on the side table that I knew if someone breathed wrong outside, he’d be awake and dangerous in less than a second.
He looked like he had just needed to rest for a minute.
Like his body had finally forced him to shut down even though his brain had probably fought it.
His hair was a little messy, his stubble darker this morning, and there was something about the sight of a big, gruff biker half-dozing on my couch that did weird things to my insides.
He looked uncomfortable.
Sexy.
And somehow… safe.
I stood there just watching him, and then I shook myself out of it.
Swift had been the one making me coffee for the past week.
And now it was my turn.
I turned and made my way into the kitchen as quietly as I could, which was apparently not very quietly at all because I’m pretty sure the floorboard by the fridge had it out for me personally.
My apartment kitchen was one of my favorite parts of the place.
Not because it was huge. It wasn’t. It was one of those narrow, galley-style kitchens with barely enough room for two people to stand in it without one of them ending up pinned against the counter.
Which, now that I thought about it, wasn’t necessarily a bad feature if Swift was going to be in here with me.
No. Stop.
I had a fancy coffee setup sitting on the counter by the window. Not industrial-level fancy, but enough that Tempi liked to call it my “coffee shrine.”
There was the matte black espresso machine with its little steam wand and shiny metal spout.
The pod brewer beside it. The milk frother.
A rotating rack of pods in every roast and flavor.
Two glass bottles of syrup, vanilla and caramel, plus three creamers in the fridge because I refused to commit to just one mood.
I liked a good cup of coffee.
More accurately, I liked coffee that tasted like it had put effort into being delicious.
Lattes.
Espressos.
Foam.
Syrups.
If I was going to consume something that made me functional, I wanted it to taste like joy and poor financial decisions.
I moved slowly, trying not to bang anything around, and grabbed one of my favorite mugs from the cabinet. Cream-colored with a gold rim and a chip on the handle from when Tempi knocked it into the sink last winter.
I popped a pod into the machine, set the mug beneath the spout, and reached for the vanilla syrup.
And then behind me, Swift’s voice cut through the quiet. “What in the hell racket are you making?”
I jumped and slowly turned toward him.
He was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, hair disheveled, eyes narrowed, one hand rubbing over the sleep on his face.
I smiled meekly.
“I was just trying to make you a coffee since you’ve been making me coffee.”
He looked from me to the coffee machine like it had personally offended him. “When I make coffee,” he said, voice still rough from sleep, “I know I’m not making that much noise.”
I fought a grin. “That’s because I’m making you a vanilla latte.”
He grunted and wandered into the kitchen, stopping next to the counter so he could eye my whole setup with obvious suspicion. “I like coffee.”
I smiled. “I know. That’s why I’m making you a double espresso latte.”
He frowned. “Coffee,” he repeated. “I like coffee, not whatever the hell you just said.”
I laughed and hit the espresso button.
The machine hummed to life, and dark espresso started pouring into the mug.
“I promise you’ll like it.”
He made a doubtful noise and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms before running a hand through his hair. It stood up in a way that should’ve looked ridiculous but somehow just made him hotter.
Rude.
“You sleep okay?” he asked.
I nodded while pumping vanilla syrup into the mug and grabbing the milk from the fridge. “It was amazing being back in my bed,” I said. “Though I was tossing and turning a bit.”
“Yeah?”
I poured milk into the frother and clicked it on. “The pain is just…” I shook my head. “A lot at night.”
He was quiet for a second, and when I looked up, his expression had softened in that barely-there way he had. “Because you’re just lying there,” he said, “and it’s hard not to focus on the pain.”
I looked back to the frother before he could see how much that hit me. “Exactly.”
His arms stayed crossed over his chest. “I thought for sure you were gonna sleep like the dead after you passed out on the couch.”
I laughed softly. “Maybe someday.”
The espresso finished pouring, and I added the frothed milk, spooning a thick layer of foam over the top before drizzling a little more vanilla in it because if I was going to do this, I was going to do it right.
I turned and handed it to him with a little flourish. “There. A double espresso vanilla latte.”
He took the mug, holding it away from himself a little like he was assessing a suspicious object someone had mailed him. “That doesn’t look like coffee to me,” he said. “Looks more like chocolate milk.”
I rolled my eyes and motioned for him to take a sip. “Just try it before you criticize it.”
He took a cautious sip. And then made a face.
I stared at him. “Well?”
He looked down into the mug. “It’s like sweet milk…” He glanced at me. “Foam.”
I yanked the cup out of his hand. I had not just burned through half my morning energy budget for this man to disrespect my latte craft. “I use the wee bit of energy I have to make him a coffee,” I muttered, “and he tells me it tastes like milk.”
“Sweet milk,” he corrected, taking the mug back. “And I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was just telling you what I tasted.”
I grabbed a spoon from the drawer and shoved it toward him. “Stir it, and then tell me what you think.”
He looked like this whole situation was deeply unnecessary, but he took the spoon and stirred the latte anyway. Then he lifted it and took another sip.
I waited.
And waited.
“Well?” I drawled.
He shrugged. “It’s fine.”
My jaw dropped. “Fine?” I repeated. “I have been working on perfecting my lattes for a year, and you just think it’s fine?”
He took another sip, totally unbothered. “Yeah, it’s fine, sugar. I’m just a simple guy who likes black coffee.”
I snatched the mug out of his hand again. “Then this is mine, and I will make you a black coffee.”
Before I could turn back to the machine, a knock sounded on the door.
Three sharp raps.
Swift pushed off the counter immediately, the whole lazy-sleepy thing gone in a second. “Make me that coffee, sugar,” he said, already moving. “And I’ll get the door.”
I watched him walk to the apartment door, every line of his body alert now. He leaned slightly and looked through the peephole. Then he turned his head to look back at me. “Forgot to mention,” he said, “that your brother came over last night when you were sleeping on the couch.”
I blinked. “Okay,” I said with a laugh.
That wasn’t out of the ordinary for Tyson. The man had protective older brother syndrome so bad I was pretty sure it was genetic. “Did you tell him I was sleeping?”
Swift nodded. “I did. But he wasn’t exactly happy that I was here and he couldn’t come in.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “Are you telling me this because my brother is on the other side of the door and you want to cover your ass?”
He nodded once. “That would be pretty accurate.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Let him in, Swift. I’m surprised he didn’t just use his key.”
“Probably because he knows if this door were just to open up,” Swift muttered, “I would shoot before asking questions.” There was no joke in his voice.
Just simple fact.
He unlocked the door and opened it.
Tyson stood there in jeans, work boots, and a dark T-shirt that looked like he’d been wearing it all night. Which he probably had. He worked weird hours and looked like he’d just come off shift.
“She up?” he asked.
“I am up,” I called out. “Come in, cranky brother.”
Swift stepped to the side. “You heard her.”
Tyson came inside, and Swift shut the door behind him before walking back to the kitchen like he hadn’t just done a whole silent male showdown on my behalf.
Tyson dropped onto one of the stools at the kitchen island while Swift came back to stand next to me.
“I’m surprised to see you so early,” I said to Tyson.
Tyson, however, was not looking at me. He was looking at Swift. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I laughed and turned back to the coffee machine to make Swift his plain, boring black coffee.
“I’m happy to be back in my apartment.”
“You should still be at Mom’s,” Tyson said immediately.
There it was.