Page 8 of Shades of Loyalty
What he did back then was a total disaster, at least that’s what I’d assume based on all the shit my father told me about him.
I glance at her. She’s rigid, hands knotted in her lap like she’s trying to hold herself together.
“So,” I break the silence. “How are you?”
She doesn’t look at me, yet her voice seems soft but detached. “Fine. Just fine.”
She’s lying, obviously, but what else is she supposed to say?
She just watched a man die in her arms. I doubt anything I say will make her feel better, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try.
“So, the way you handled that situation… Are you a nurse, or something?” I try to lighten the mood, but she just nods instead of talking.
I guess she’s either not good at keeping conversations flowing or she just doesn’t want to.
I mean, choosing that topic is probably not the smartest thing I’ve done today.
So, I try something more… Natural. Or, well, I’m trying, okay?
“Did you have breakfast yet?” I ask casually, as if we’re having a normal everyday conversation. She shakes her head, her silky black hair falling over her shoulder.
“No. Why?” My focus heads back to the streets in front of us.
“I thought I’d get you something at a bakery. A coffee, maybe a cinnamon roll?” Fuck. It’s 8am. Who’d eat a cinnamon roll at this time?
For the first time since the meeting, the corners of her mouth twitch. A ghost of a smile.
“That would be nice.” I nod, satisfied. “Alright, then.” But God, I’m hoping she doesn’t actually get a cinnamon roll at 8am. That’d be insane.
Although, after the shit she had to witness this morning, I don’t think I’d judge her for wanting a sweet treat.
Yeah, I won’t. I’ll let her get whatever she wants. It’s none of my business, anyway.
Come to think of it, fuck it. I’d kill for a cinnamon roll right now.
I pull into a parking lot near the small, familiar coffee shop. It’s owned by my younger brother, Andrew, though the shop serves more than just pastries and caffeine.
It’s one of our money-laundering fronts. Andrew wasn’t thrilled when Dad suggested it, but he agreed — Andrew never lets the family down.
And if the freedom of having his own bakery meant he had to be our front, then so be it. That’s how he worded it, at least.
I park in my usual spot and get out of the car. Before she can open her door, I’m already there, pulling it open for her and offering her my hand.
She hesitates before taking it, her touch tentative but warm. I notice the faint blush on her cheeks as she steps out of the car, her gaze flicking away from mine.
She thanks me quietly, and I lock the car. Without thinking, I keep her hand in mine as we walk toward the shop.
She doesn’t seem to mind—or maybe she’s too lost in her own thoughts to notice. Just like I am.
The truth is, I don’t usually act like this. I’m not the kind of guy who holds hands or opens doors.
But something about her—her vulnerability, maybe—makes me soften slightly.
When we step inside, the sweet smell of fresh pastries and coffee fills the air.
My brother is behind the counter, focused on decorating a cupcake. He doesn’t notice us at first, but when he does, his face lights up in an instant.
“Welcome!” he says cheerfully, looking at the woman entering the café next to me.
