Page 17 of Anything For You
Elizabeth wove through them on autopilot, her leather bag bumping against her hip with every step. The noise of the city—honking cabs, distant sirens, the hum of voices—all blurred into a familiar rhythm. Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement, echoing the steady beat of her heart.
The wind picked up, whipping her hair across her face. She brushed it back impatiently, her fingers cold against her cheek. The chill seeped into her bones, a stark contrast to the warmth of the bar last night, the press of Kelsey’s knee against hers. She shook her head, pushing the thought away. Focus on the present, on the concrete beneath her feet, on the familiar route to the coffee shop.
She hadn’t slept well. And she probably shouldn’t have had another whiskey when she’d gotten home last night.
Her mind kept circling back to the bar. To Kelsey’s hand on her knee, warm and steady through the fabric of her pants, a weight that had somehow anchored her to the moment even as everything else felt unsteady. To the way Kelsey had leaned in, fingers brushing her neck, her breath ghosting against Elizabeth’s ear with words that had felt like a dare.
Practice checking me out.
Elizabeth’s pulse kicked up again, just remembering it. The way her body had responded before her brain could catch up, heat pooling low in her stomach. The way Kelsey had pulled back, eyes bright and a little wild, cheeks flushed with something that looked like surprise at her own boldness, before disappearing into the crowd. The way Elizabeth had sat there afterward, frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape, her skin still burning where Kelsey’s fingers had touched.
The memory followed her now, uninvited. Every time she tried to focus on something else—the sidewalk cracks beneath her feet, the morning’s case notes, the familiar weight of her bag against her hip—her treacherous mind dragged her back to that moment. To the soft press of Kelsey’s thumb against her neck. To the way her own breath had stuttered when Kelsey whispered those words, low and teasing and somehow more intimate than anything Elizabeth had heard in months.
It was acting. A performance. Kelsey had been practicing for the wedding, making sure Elizabeth looked like she cared about Kelsey. That was the whole point.
How could her skin still ache with the phantom pressure of Kelsey’s touch?
She turned onto the quieter side street where 72 & Brew sat tucked between a dry cleaner and a small flower shop. The café’sfront windows were fogged with condensation, the chalkboard sign outside advertising some new lavender latte Kelsey had probably talked the owner into adding.
She stopped a few feet from the door.
This was ridiculous. She went to this coffee shop every weekday morning. She had been doing it for months. One night of fake dating didn’t change that. Kelsey was her barista. A very helpful, slightly reckless barista who had agreed to sign a contract, nothing more.
Elizabeth pushed the door open.
The bell chimed. The warmth and noise of the café wrapped around her immediately—steam, voices, the low thrum of indie music playing through the overhead speakers. She stepped into line behind a man in a suit scrolling through his phone, her eyes instinctively scanning the counter.
Kelsey was there.
Of course she was. She always worked the morning shift.
Kelsey was bent slightly forward over the espresso machine, shoulders rounded in concentration as dark liquid dripped into the small glass shot glass. A loose blonde tendril had escaped her messy bun and curled against the side of her neck. The gray sweater she wore today clung to her in a way that made Elizabeth think of storm clouds and worn-in cotton, the sleeves pushed up past her forearms to reveal lean muscles shifting as she worked.
There was always something mesmerizing about watching Kelsey in her element, the way she never wasted a movement, how her fingers knew exactly how hard to tamp the grounds, when to stop the pour. Elizabeth had witnessed this ritual dozens of times, but now she noticed every detail: the flex of Kelsey’s wrist as she twisted the porta filter loose, the way her lower lip caught between her teeth when she checked the espresso’s color.
Then, as if sensing the weight of Elizabeth’s gaze, Kelsey glanced up through her lashes.
For one endless second, the noisy café seemed to fall away. Elizabeth could hear nothing but her own pulse thudding in her ears, nothing existed except the warm brown of Kelsey’s eyes locking onto hers.
The espresso machine let out a final sigh of steam. Neither of them moved.
Kelsey’s expression did something devastating. Her lips parted slightly, the flush on her cheeks deepening, lashes fluttering as if blinking away the memory of last night. For a heartbeat, her usual warmth faltered, replaced by something raw and fleeting before she smoothed it into an easy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Elizabeth’s stomach clenched.
She straightened her spine, schooling her face into the practiced neutrality she used at depositions. The kind that said everything was under control.
As if this were any other day.
The man in front of her ordered a flat white and moved to the pickup area. Elizabeth stepped forward.
Kelsey was already reaching for a to-go cup, her smile softening into something quieter. “Morning.”
“Morning,” Elizabeth said.
“Your usual?”
“Yes, please.”
