Chapter 33
Saint
I’m in my coffee kitchen when Lark finds me. Roaster prepped, drum sitting just over four-twenty, perfect for the espresso I use to make Lark’s brown sugar lattes. That’s the key to getting it right. A roast that lands just below medium-dark, less than what you might think would go in a latte.
In here, everything follows rules. Temperature. Time. Pressure. You get out exactly what you put in. I haven't figured out how to apply that logic to the rest of my life.
The day I walked out of Riverside Elite Heat Clinic, I was lost. I had nowhere to go.
Couldn’t go back to the station. Couldn’t come home.
So I went to Nayda’s Café. I ordered three brown sugar lattes in a row and sat there for two hours studying the flavor.
The texture. The specific ratio of sweet to bitter that she'd described when we were texting.
I told myself I was just curious. I knew I was lying.
I didn’t expect to be making them every morning for her before work. Hell, I wasn’t even sure that I’d ever see her again. I just knew that I needed to understand how to make them. To get a feel for why she likes them so much.
I know the moment she walks in the door. Her salty-caramel scent spikes the air, overpowering the coffee smell that permeates every crevice of this space.
“Oh, wow,” she gasps. “This is like a real coffee kitchen. I thought Silas was exaggerating when he told me about it.”
I place the canister of green coffee beans on the table and turn to face her.
She’s wearing plum-colored leggings that hug the curve of muscle along her thigh, and an oversized T-shirt.
She’s rumpled from whatever she and Silas have been doing upstairs, and her plump lips are even more swollen and pink from their kisses.
She steals my breath. And I hate that. Hate that I can’t stop looking at her. That I can’t stop thinking about her. That I’m drifting closer and closer to giving in to the power she has over me.
My alpha doesn't hate it, though. He wants to add his mark to whatever Silas left behind.
This thing between us? It’s dangerous. I know it, but I can’t seem to stop it from happening. I’m not even sure I still want to.
She moves closer. Her scent brushes the back of my throat. “Explain it to me.” She points to my roasting machine.
I know what she's doing. She's trying to force me to open up. I should turn away, but I don't. “This is the roaster.” I gesture to the steel machine in front of us. “This one will roast up to six kilograms at a time.”
She gasps. “Only six? But it’s huge!”
I chuckle. “Six is a lot for a backyard hobby.”
Her eyes are big and questioning. Like she actually wants to know more. And, god help me, I keep going. I should run away or tell her to go see Silas in his shop.
“The beans start out green when they’re picked.” I pick up the canister of beans I just measured. “It’s the roasting process that turns them dark.”
“How long do they need to roast?”
I shrug. “It depends on the machine, the temperature, the desired level of roast.” I shake canister until the beans fall into the hopper at the top of the machine. “This batch will probably go for twelve or thirteen minutes.”
I point to the laptop I have set up on a nearby table. “Graham helped me set up a thermal reader and app. So I can monitor from my computer. But I usually just like to look and listen.”
Lark nods again, as though she actually understands. Maybe she does. She can keep up with Graham and all his science lectures. Coffee roasting probably isn’t even a challenge for her.
She looks around the room, taking it all in before walking a few paces away to where I have burlap bags stacked neatly on a shelving unit. She reads the labels on the shelves, then looks back at me.
“So many different kinds. Do you use them all?”
I shrug. “Yeah. Some more than others. Right now, I’m roasting a blend. One bean is from Guatemala, the other from Brazil.”
She takes a bean out from one sack and puts it to her nose, testing the scent. “And what will that end up tasting like?”
“Sweet. Some chocolate… Caramel,” I choke out.
Her eyes go wide and her sweet scent floods the room.
My alpha claws at my chest.
Fuck.
I turn my back to her, pretending to be interested in the beans currently roasting.
The beans have gotten hot enough now to emit their strong smell. I’ve grown used to the burnt toast and hay scent that happens as the beans start to dry out, but I’m wishing I hadn’t. Maybe then I could drown out the scent of her perfume.
She comes and stands by my shoulder. My brain starts calculating how easy it would be to turn and press her against the counter.
“I didn’t realize it would smell so…” Her upturned nose wrinkles. It’s the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
“The drying phase is the worst. It will mellow out a bit when the roasting process starts and smell more like what you’re used to after first crack.”
She looks like she’s reconsidering her relationship with coffee. “I can see why your shop is so far from the house.”
Despite myself, I laugh. A real one. “Yeah, when I first started, I would dry the beans in our oven. It’s not as even a roast, but a good way to get started.”
She looks appalled. “You let this smell into the house?”
“I did. After three attempts Silas forbid me to ever bring another unroasted bean in the door. That week he called someone to redesign his shop so I could have my own space.”
A dreamy look passes over her face when I mention Silas. “That sounds like him. He wants the people he loves to be happy.”
Yeah. He does.
“He also loves my coffee. I have a special blend I use just for the house. It’s his favorite.”
She gestures toward the machine. “Is that what this one is? Silas’ blend?”
My throat tightens. “No,” I rasp. I should stop there. “This one is yours.”
Her breath hitches. “I… have my own blend?”
I swallow down a lemon-sized knot in my throat. Before I can find my voice, she steps closer, asking too many questions for my rattled brain to answer.
“You made me a blend? Is it the one I’ve always been drinking? When?”
I take a deep breath. “The day at the clinic, I didn’t know where to go, so I went to Nayda’s Café.”
She places her hand on my bicep. It’s the first time she’s touched me. Just her hand on my arm. My body burns with recognition like it's been waiting for exactly this. The pressure of her skin against mine is a fucking truth serum.
I tell her everything. About how I drank so many brown sugar lattes my eyes bulged. How I came immediately to my shop and started experimenting with flavor profiles. How after six trials I finally found the right one.
And then I wait. Because I’ve just admitted that I’ve been gone for her from the beginning and that I rejected her anyway.
But instead of anger, she smirks. “We need to do a taste test. Compare your version to Nayda’s.” Of all the things she could have said.
I hesitate, trying to figure out a way to turn her down without being rude. I'm tired of being rude to her. She deserves better than me. Someone who isn't held together with duct tape. Someone who didn't spend months unable to get out of bed. She deserves someone who was whole before she got here.
I don't want to hurt her anymore. But I don't know how to stop.
“I can see your mind working,” she teases, one hip cocked against the table. “You want to say no. But you can’t. Silas said you have to take me out on one proper courting date per week. Might as well start with coffee.”
Nayda’s is exactly how I remember it. Plants hang from the ceiling in trailing vines, sit in mismatched ceramic pots on every shelf, and crowd the windows in leafy clusters that filter the afternoon light into something green and soft. The place smells like espresso and wet soil.
We stand in line while Lark holds the insulated thermos containing the latte I made for her.
“Are you nervous?” she asks. “What if I like Nayda’s better?”
I smirk. “You won’t.”
The line creeps forward. When we finally reach the register, Lark beams at the girl behind the counter.
“One brown sugar latte, please.” She glances over her shoulder at me. “What do you want?”
“The same.”
The girl smiles politely. “Names?”
We tell her and she scribbles them onto the cups and slides them down the counter. Lark spots an open table across the room and starts toward it, weaving through the crowd of students and office workers.
We’re halfway there when it happens.
“Lark?”
She stops. A tall alpha stands a few feet away, holding a paper cup and looking pleasantly surprised. His scent is sweet at first, then tart. He’s interested. Too fucking interested.
“Remember me?” he asks.
Lark blinks. “BaseballFan, I mean, Seth.” She laughs awkwardly. “Yes, of course.”
My stomach drops. BaseballFan. He must be one of the clinic’s alphas. I tighten my hold on my keys.
He reaches out and briefly touches her forearm. “Didn’t expect to run into you here. I’ve been hoping to see you.”
My vision goes red. My alpha, the one I’ve kept chained down since that day in the heat clinic, finally snaps loose.
I move before I even realize I’ve decided to. One step and suddenly I’m between them. “Don’t fucking touch my omega.” The words come out before I've decided to say them.
My omega.
First time I've said it out loud. I mean every word.
The café goes quiet around us.
Seth’s hands immediately lift in surrender. “Whoa. Sorry, man. I didn’t realize.”
Lark’s cheeks flush bright pink. “I’m sorry,” she says quickly, looking between us. To me she says, “Seth didn’t know.”
The alpha-hole nods. “Yeah. I swear I thought—”
But I don’t listen. I’m seeing red, like maybe I’ve been looking for a reason to fight. A reason to shout. “No excuses. You saw her with me.”
He snarls, but it’s weak. He knows she was standing with me. Knows she’s taken. He doesn’t back down though.
“Relax man.” He glances at Lark, then back at me. “She can speak for herself. Besides, we already know each other.”
That sends my alpha into a rage.
The fuck they do, my alpha protests.
Exactly.