Page 117 of Fake It Till You Love Me
"Hey," he said to me.
"Hey."
He crossed to the counter. Stood next to Devon. Didn't acknowledge him. Just waited for his coffee with the quiet confidence of a man who knew exactly where hebelonged.
Devon looked at Callum. Looked at me. Did the math — though, honestly, the math had been done for him in this very scenario once before, in a different coffee shop, when I'd grabbed Callum's arm and changed both our lives.
"You two are still?—"
"Together," I said. "Very much together."
Callum's mouth curved. Not smug. Just... there. Present. Mine.
I handed Devon his latte. "On the house."
"You don't have to?—"
"I want to. Consider it a thank you."
"For what?"
I looked at Devon — the man who'd walked into Brew & Bean and broken me open and sent me spiraling into a fake dating arrangement with a grumpy architect who turned out to be the love of my life — and I smiled.
"For the push," I said.
Devon took his latte. Nodded. Left.
The bell chimed behind him.
Callum watched him go. "He tried to flirt with you."
"He asked if I was seeing anyone. Before you walked in."
"Of course he did." Callum reached across thecounter. I gave him my hand. He held it — warm, solid, present. "You okay?"
"I'm great, actually."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." I squeezed his hand. "I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."
He lifted my hand. Pressed a kiss to my knuckles. Let go. Took his corner table. Opened his laptop. Stayed.
I turned back to the machine. Pulled a shot. Poured a heart into the foam — a perfect one, clean lines, zero resemblance to livestock. Set it on the counter for the next customer and looked around my coffee shop.
The L-shaped counter. The reading nook with afternoon sun. The community board, pinned thick with the lives of people who'd found a place here. Mika, back from break, tying her apron and asking me about tomorrow's pastry order. The corner table where a man in a navy suit was pretending to work and actually watching me over the top of his laptop.
Brew & Bloom. Coffee and flowers. Growing things.
I was almost twenty-four years old. I owned a building, ran a business, and loved a man who argued with me about subway tile and played piano when he couldn't sleep and had once told me my foam art looked like a deformed sheep and then came backevery single morning for a year to make sure I knew he was staying.
Not bad for a college dropout with a Honda Accord and a dream.
Not bad at all.
***
