Chapter Ten
Weston
The coffee shop is one of those hole-in-the-wall places that somehow survives in New York, despite charging reasonable prices.
Probably because it’s actually good. It’s a cozy little place with mismatched furniture and local art on the walls.
It’s the kind of place where people actually talk instead of just burying themselves in laptops.
Luckily, the line isn’t too long, which is a small miracle in this city. Brittany stands close enough to me that I can smell her shampoo—something citrusy and light.
Parker would absolutely murder me for noticing that.
Actually, Parker would murder me for a lot of things I’ve been noticing about his sister lately.
Like how her laugh starts in her eyes before it reaches her mouth.
Or how she gets this little crease between her eyebrows when she’s concentrating.
Or how right now, with her hair pulled back in that cute little messy ponytail and wearing a simple T-shirt and jeans, she somehow looks more beautiful than most women do all dressed up.
Yeah, Parker would definitely have my head on a spike.
“What’re you thinking about?” Brittany asks, nudging my arm with her elbow. “You’ve got this weird expression on your face.”
“Just contemplating my own mortality,” I reply lightly. “The usual.”
She laughs, and there it is—that sparkle in her eyes before the sound comes out. “That’s a heavy topic for a coffee run.”
“I like to keep things profound while caffeinating,” I say with a shrug. “It’s my specialty.”
The line moves forward, and we step up together. The small space forces us to stand closer than necessary, our shoulders occasionally brushing. Each point of contact sends a current through me that I’m trying very hard to ignore.
“What’s good here?” she asks, peering up at the chalkboard menu above the counter.
“Everything,” I say honestly. “But their cold brew is legendary. It’s like rocket fuel, but it tastes like chocolate somehow.”
“Tempting,” she muses, “but I prefer my coffee a little more … flavorful.”
“Let me guess,” I say, squinting at her. “You’re gonna order something with at least five words in the name, specify its exact temperature, and request some kind of milk that comes from a nut or a bean but definitely not a cow.”
Her mouth drops open. “That is … disturbingly accurate.”
“I’m a programmer,” I remind her. “Pattern recognition is my thing.”
When we reach the counter, Brittany proves me right by ordering an iced vanilla oat milk latte with an extra shot and light ice. I bite back a smile as I order my simple cold brew.
“Don’t you dare say anything,” she warns as we move to the pickup area.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” I raise my hands in surrender. “I’m just impressed you managed to fit all those specifications into one breath.”
“It’s a talent,” she admits with a grin. “I spent three years as a barista during undergrad. You learn the lingo.”
“I bet you intimidated the snot out of the new hires,” I say, picturing a younger Brittany efficiently running a coffee shop with the same determination she seems to approach everything with.
“Only the ones who didn’t steam the milk properly,” she says with a wink that does strange things to my insides.
“So,” I say, eager to change the subject. “Are you excited about the new place? Or nervous?”
“Both? It’s weird. I was so ready to get out of Parker’s, but now that it’s happening…”
“Second thoughts?” I ask.
“Not exactly.” She sighs. “I guess I’m just bummed I’m gonna be living alone again.”
“Ah. The solo-living adventure,” I say, nodding. “It’s a mixed bag. No one eats your leftovers, but no one helps you kill spiders.”
She smiles. “Are you volunteering for spider duty? Because I might take you up on that.”
The thought of Brittany calling me to come over, of having a reason to see her outside of Parker’s watchful eye, is more appealing than it should be. “I’m an excellent spider relocator,” I assure her. “Very humane. I give them little pep talks about finding better real estate opportunities.”
She laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Living alone does have its perks, though,” I offer. “You can dance around in your underwear, eat ice cream for dinner without judgment, leave dishes in the sink for days…”
“That all sounds very mature,” she teases.
“Maturity is overrated,” I counter. “Just ask Parker.”
“Speaking of my brother,” Brittany says, glancing at her phone, “he’s probably having an aneurysm waiting for us.”
“Let him sweat,” I joke. “He could use a lesson in patience.”
Brittany raises an eyebrow. “Brave words from someone who claims to value their life.”
“What can I say? I live life on the edge.”
Just then, the barista calls out our names. We grab our coffees and make our way toward the exit, but not before tasting our respective drinks.
“Mmm. Perfect,” I say, savoring the cold brew. It’s simple, yet delicious.
“Mine too.” She beams. “Thanks for suggesting this,” she says as we step back out into the New York afternoon. “I needed the break before facing the chaos of unpacking.”
“Anytime. Coffee breaks are essential to maintaining sanity during moves. It’s practically a law.”
She smiles up at me, the sunlight catching in her hair and making it glow.
“Now, let’s go get you settled into your new place,” I add. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and meet some of your neighbors.”
“I think my next-door neighbor at the new place is a pianist,” Brittany says as we make the trek back to her car. “At least, that’s what the property manager said. Hopefully they’re good.”
“If not, you could always fight music with music,” I suggest. “Take up the bagpipes or something equally horrific.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of interpretive tap dance,” she quips.
“Even better.”
She smiles, then glances at her phone and winces. “Shoot, our little coffee run took twenty minutes. Parker’s going to kill us.”
“Death by coffee break,” I say solemnly. “What a way to go.”
Brittany looks at me, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Worth it, though?”
The question hangs between us, carrying more weight than it should for such a simple phrase. Is this—whatever is developing between us—worth risking Parker’s wrath? Worth potentially complicating a friendship I value? Worth stepping into territory I promised myself I’d avoid?
The answer feels dangerously close to yes.
“Definitely worth it,” I say, trying to keep my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest as we arrive at her car. “Even if your brother makes me carry all the heavy boxes as punishment.”
She laughs at that as I trot around to her driver’s side before she does, opening the door for her.
“You’re pretty good at this whole friendship thing, Weston,” she says, before sitting down in the driver’s seat.
Friendship. Right. That’s what this is—what it has to be.
“I try,” I say, forcing a casualness I don’t feel as I shut the car door behind her.
And try to shut the door to my heart.