Under Galahad's Protection (Round Table Security #1)

1. Grace

Grace

The morning rhythm of The Velvet Bean gave me joy.

The swirl of voices, the purr of the espresso machine, and the familiar thud of mugs on hardwood tables were music to my ears.

Sunlight streamed through the wall of windows, painting everything from the plants by the window to the coffee grinders behind the counter in warm, rich hues.

I wiped down a table and loaded some empty mugs into my bus bin.

The first notes of “Build Me Up Buttercup” played in the background, and all on their own, my hips began to sway.

My caffeinated haven was heaven on Earth.

I laughed quietly to myself—a heavenly haven.

“Seven a.m., like clockwork.” Vanessa, my barista-turned-assistant manager, stopped next to me and wiped her hands on her apron.

The bell over the door chimed as several regulars walked in: a college student with baggy sweats and bleary eyes, a local artist with bright pink hair, and Mr. Kendrick in his tweed jacket, with his ever-present newspaper tucked under his arm.

Right behind them would be a stream of patrons intent on sitting and enjoying the atmosphere, rather than snagging coffee on the go.

“Want me on the register or the bar?” she asked.

“I’ll take the register.” I stowed my cleaning supplies and bin, then headed for the counter with her. “You’re better with the milk foam art, anyway.”

“You just want to keep me away from your precious ordering system.” Vanessa grinned, her voice laced with friendly sass. “I’ll have it completely redesigned before you get back.”

“I could fire you for that,” I said, feigning an air of importance.

“But you’d be lost without me, boss.” She patted my shoulder in an exaggerated display of comfort before taking up her position in front of the espresso machine.

“Hi, Mr. Kendrick.” I unlocked the register and smiled at him. The others had let the older man by, so he’d be up first. “Large house blend, two cream, two sugar?”

He tipped his hat and retrieved his wallet. “Same as every day.”

I tapped the order onto the touchscreen. “How’s the crossword treating you so far?”

“Terrible.” He chuckled, sliding the exact change across to me. “I might need your input if you have time.”

On cue, Vanessa placed his mug beside me, and I handed it to him. “Let me know if any of them have to do with coffee trivia. That’s my specialty.”

He shuffled to his usual table, a cozy corner near the big windows facing the street, with enough room for his newspaper.

I moved on to the next customers, ringing up a chai latte for the artist and an extra-large Americano for the college student whose heavy lids told me he’d pulled an all-nighter.

Behind me, Vanessa deftly managed the machines.

She wasn’t simply more artistic than I was; she was faster.

Which was lucky for me, since the barista who normally worked the early shift with us was out with a broken arm.

Four more orders followed before I had enough of a lull to tidy the pastry case.

After serving her last drink, Vanessa joined me. “How did the interview go?”

“Good.” I pulled out an empty tray. We needed more cheese scones. “New guy will be in tomorrow to learn the ropes.”

“Right on time for your trip?”

I nodded, handing her the tray. “You’ll have to keep him in line while I’m gone.”

“Is he cute?” Vanessa raised her hopeful eyebrows.

“For someone who won’t be his boss? He might be.”

“You should stay in London longer.”

I rolled my eyes at her and pointed toward the kitchen. “Go get more scones.”

“Aye, aye, captain.”

The door chimed like a small announcement, and Vanessa and I both turned to look.

The first man through was Tristan McCallum, whose mother owned the art gallery a few buildings down the road.

His sharp eyes and quick smirk always made him seem like he was hiding a secret.

He wore a charcoal T-shirt that fit smoothly across his frame, jeans, and work boots.

The gossip I’d originally had on him—since we both grew up in Brenton, even though he was a few years older than me—was that he’d moved here in his teens with his mother, left after high school to serve in the Navy, and had moved back to Brenton six months ago.

But aside from all that, he was my best friend’s boyfriend, so I also knew he liked his coffee extra sweet, had served with the SEALs and a defense contracting firm that sent him to the Middle East, and I was pretty sure he knew at least fifty-two ways to kill someone and hide the body.

“Hey, Tristan,” I said, once he was halfway across the café. “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Izzy’s off today, isn’t she?”

“She is.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “But I’ve got a breakfast meeting, and the boardroom at our office isn’t ready yet.”

As Tristan reached the counter, what must have been his breakfast meeting stopped beside him.

My throat closed over. The man was tall—taller than Tristan by a couple of inches—and broad in a way that made my café suddenly feel smaller.

He had short, dark hair and a close-cropped beard, a muscular frame, and eyes that flicked around the room.

He wore a simple black Henley, which emphasized his shoulders, and his stance demanded attention.

Every single ounce of this man demanded attention. From the way he angled his body to the slow sweep of his gaze to the way power and authority flowed off him, the same way it flowed from Tristan.

But what didn’t match between the two men was this guy’s frown. His lips were tight, slightly downturned, as though he didn’t want to be here.

Vanessa cleared her throat, and I backed out of the way so she could slide a fresh tray of scones into the case. I hadn’t even noticed her leave, let alone come back. As she knelt to access the empty rack, she mouthed to me, Who is that?

I gave a tiny shrug in return, then returned my focus to the men. I had a coffee shop to run, despite tall, dark, and scowly standing in front of me. “The usual, Tristan?”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Of course.”

I told Vanessa, “Vanilla latte, triple shot, extra foam, with two pumps of caramel and one of hazelnut.”

“That never fails to impress me.” He pointed at the pastry display. “And one of the ham-and-cheese breakfast sandwiches.”

“Got it,” I said, cutting my gaze to the stranger with him. “And for you?”

“Black.” His voice was as deep as the rumble of thunder, and settled a bit too low in my belly for this hour of the day. “Just black.”

Just black? He obviously hadn’t tasted my house blend yet. “Anything to eat?”

He dipped his chin in a near-imperceptible nod. It was such a brief, subtle movement, I might have missed it if I’d blinked.

Was that a yes? Was he going to say more?

Nope.

“All right,” I said, ringing in another breakfast sandwich, assuming that was what he’d meant. “Why don’t you guys take a seat? I’ll bring your food and drinks over.”

Tristan paid for both of them, then headed to the raised area in the back where he and his co-workers usually sat. The other man followed him silently. As they walked, I couldn’t stop watching how the man—whoever he was—kept a small gap between himself and Tristan, like a perimeter.

“Grace?” Vanessa’s voice snapped me out of whatever was going on in my head.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll get Tristan’s started.” She eased closer and whispered, “But who is the guy with him?”

I let out a slow breath. “No idea. It’s the first time I’ve seen him.”

“He’s…” She wrinkled her nose. “Intense is the only word I can come up with.”

I should have laughed, but it came out as more of a nervous huff. “Understatement of the year.”

“But definitely hot. You should hire him.”

Tristan was starting a security firm with some friends who’d all served together. If this guy were a new hire, maybe he’d also served with them?

And how could I justify requesting security from a hunky close-protection specialist? Not like there was anything dangerous in my world, but… I rolled my inner eyeballs at myself. I’d clearly been single too long. I nudged Vanessa’s arm. “Don’t stare. They’ll notice.”

“Like I’m the only one staring.” Vanessa snorted softly and turned back to the coffee bar. “But we could really use the help.”

We had a baker in the back, two other baristas, and a part-time student who was a huge help. The Velvet Bean was doing too much business for so few employees, though. The new hire starting tomorrow would help, but I did need to hire a few more, especially for the morning rush.

I scanned the crowd, but no one needed me at the moment. Mr. Kendrick erased something from his crossword puzzle and jotted in new letters. If I raised prices, as my accountant suggested, could Mr. Kendrick afford to be a fixture here anymore?

Maybe the trip to London would take care of it. If the authenticator I was visiting agreed with what the jeweler thought, then I’d have enough money for?—

Focus on the customers, Grace. There’s plenty of time to think about the trip later.

I took another order, called it to Vanessa, and slid the breakfast sandwiches she’d prepared into the toasting oven.

One more glance around the shop. I paused on Tristan and his… friend? Associate? I was spending too much time checking the guy out, but life was too short not to appreciate a pair of handsome men. Even when at least one of them was taken.

Life might be too short, but you’ve got work to do.

I ground fresh beans and started a pour-over for Tristan’s friend.

Yeah, let’s go with friend. The scent bloomed when the boiling water hit the grounds.

Dark, chocolatey Guatemalan beans with a touch of earthiness from the Sumatran.

So smooth a man who liked just black coffee would pause before his second sip.

Challenge accepted, hot stuff.

A lull in orders gave me a chance to do a round of the café.

I moved past the reading nook, straightened a stack of bookmarks with QR codes advertising a farmer’s market, and verified the sugar caddies were stocked.

For two and a half years, my coffee shop had been the kind of place where my customers could settle in for hours or drop by for a quick fix.

I wanted it to remain that way, no matter who showed up at my door.

My accountant had other ideas. He said settling in for hours didn’t bring in enough money. He was right, but raking in untold riches wasn’t why I’d opened the place. I wanted people to sit. To talk. To simply be with each other.

I slowed as I passed the photo wall next to the counter and straightened the ancient sepia-toned photo of my grandmother.

My Didi. Opening the café had been her idea.

Well, it had been my idea, but if it hadn’t been for her, I would have stayed in finance for the rest of my life, holding onto the stability of working in a large organization.

Opening my own company had been a big risk, but my whole heart was in this job.

In the photo, Didi was thirty years old, wearing the velvet jacket she always said had brought her luck. What kind of luck? No idea. She’d hinted at—but never finished—so many stories. Especially near the end. She was the soul of this place, and she wouldn’t want me to raise prices, either.

The oven dinged, and Vanessa waved me over. “They’re ready.”

I pulled on an oven mitt and carefully removed the toaster tray. Cheese bubbled at the edges of the sandwiches, making my mouth water.

Vanessa handed me a serving tray. Waggling her eyebrows, she said, “Want me to deliver?”

“I’ve got it.” I bit back a laugh, then shook my head. “Thanks, though.”

“Remember the no staring part.” She brushed a strand of her light-brown hair back and returned to grinding the beans.

I plated the sandwiches and added them to the tray. Personally delivering a meal or a snack that made someone’s day better was my small, happy ritual.

And from the tension radiating off Tristan and his friend, they could use a little happy.