After a quick change and a glance in the mirror that confirms I’m at least presentable, I decide to grab coffee at‘Bean There, Done That.’
I need caffeine if I’m going to face Jillian’s torture—er, training—session.
Plus, it’s on the way to the gym. Win-win.
* * *
As I enter the coffee shop, Dylan, Adam’s apparent best friend and the world’s most infuriatingly smug barista, greets me with a grin that’s too cheeky for this hour.
“Morning, Carlie. I’m assuming the usual?” he asks, already getting on it as if the half-awake look on my face already told himyes.
“Hey, Dylan. Make it strong enough to resurrect the dead, please,” I say, attempting a smile but probably looking more like I smelled something foul.
His grin widens, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about Adam and me.
Does he know anything? Did Adam talk to him about our date and the way it ended? Do guys discuss that sort of thing? Or is that reserved only for hookups?
My face heats.
Oh, god. If he’s the guy from Nocté, would he have told Dylan about that night?
Is this all a part of the cosmic joke the universe is playing on me?
As Dylan hands me the coffee with a casual flick of his wrist, his expression is playfully sardonic. “Strong enough to wake the dead. Keep it up, and we might start calling you the local necromancer.”
I grin back at him. “Thanks, Dylan. If it works on me this morning, you can call me anything you want.”
I turn to leave, only to collide with another patron in my haste. The lid pops off my coffee cup, and hot liquid cascades down my front.
“Ouch! Hot, hot, hot!” I dance back, dropping the cup as I fan my now coffee-stained shirt.
Dylan rushes over, napkins in hand. “Whoa, are you okay?”
“Just peachy,” I grumble, dabbing at the boiling hot liquid and tugging my shirt away from my body. “And they say writers lead boring lives.”
He chuckles, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You sure you don’t want to switch to iced coffee?”
I shoot him a look that’s half annoyance, half amusement. “Hilarious, Dylan. I’ll remember this the next time you want book recommendations.”
On the upside, at least my mortifying mess didn’t expand to the brick wall of a guy I ran into. Instead, he just steps around me and my disaster, and walks up to the counter.
“Don’t worry, sir, it’s not you, it’s me,” I mutter under my breath. It really doesn’t matter if he hears me or not. “I’m just a walking calamity.”
I help Dylan clean up the mess on the floor while the other barista helps the guy oblivious to my plight. When every trace of coffee is erased, Dylan heads back to the machines and makes me another drink.
With a little luck, I’ll be able to actually swallow down some of that resurrection potion this time.
* * *
Rushing back home, I’m a chaotic whirlwind. The idea of being late for Jillian’s session, especially after my coffee debacle, sets my nerves on edge. I take quick sips of the scalding coffee, wincing as it burns my tongue.
“Great, now I’ll be tasting everything with a side of charred tastebuds,” I mutter, fumbling with my keys.
Once inside, I hustle to my room, peeling off the coffee-stained shirt with a grimace.
“You had one job, shirt. One job—” I toss my shirt into the hamper, hoping it doesn’t hold a grudge. Grabbing a fresh workout outfit, I hop around trying to get the old one off as quickly as possible, nearly face-planting in the process.
“Balance, Carlie, it’s not just for flamingos,” I scold myself, finally getting the new shirt over my head.