Page 34 of The Other Side

You assume correctly. Does 1:00 work for you?

My teeth sink deeper into my lip. The tension in my lower belly threatens to combust, and suddenly, I’m changing clothes.

Fuck.

* * *

Brant opens the glass door to Beanix Coffee, and I slip inside the café first.

My slip-on shoes kiss the polished concrete when I half-turn to him. “You come here often?”

He treads forward, hands in his jeans pockets as we approach the small order counter. “When I don’t bring my own coffee to work, it’s a great backup.”

I playfully shape my lips into a tight circle, popping a shoulder to my chin. “Oh. Fancy.”

We smile before Brant places his order with the barista. My eyes find the mounted menu screen, the company name lit in a neon pink sign above.

“The Strawberry Shortcake has those Good Humor crumbles on top,” Brant pipes up. “If that helps.”

My head rotates to him, brows inclining just as his lift suggestively. “Oh my god, that does,” I say, turning to the teenage girl behind the counter. “I’ll have a Strawberry Shortcake Latte. Hot, please.”

The barista’s ring-clad fingers tap the kiosk, and Brant hands over a twenty-dollar bill. “Yeah, honestly, those ice cream bars should be in a hall of fame or something,” he claims.

I smirk when he tucks the change into his back pocket. My head pokes around to view the length of the café, and my right hand instinctively shields my left.

I gulp tightly as my fingers toy with the square diamond. There’s no more than five people here, and whoever is here is focused on their laptop or phone screens. But the pit in my stomach lodges deeper anyway.

“Come on.”

Brant walks ahead, his earthy cologne mingling with the draft of roasted coffee beans. I follow his lead, catching the canopy of steel beams above the white walls. “Thank you,” I offer, slipping beside him.

We’re paused in front of the pick-up counter. I’m toying with a button on my half-fastened cardigan, and the barista rests our cups on the matte counter.

Brant grabs our order, leading us to a round table. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

“Ah.” I hang my crossbody over the rear of the chair, swiping my palms down the back of my mini skirt to sit. “Is work that terrible?”

He slides my latte to me, his corded forearm peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his henley. “Nah, it’s not so bad,” he answers before sipping his cold brew.

I intentionally plant my left hand on my lap, lifting my latte in my right. Pink and tan crumbles decorate the foam layer at the rim, and bursts of strawberry sink into my mouth.

My eyes find Brant’s as I lean back in the chair. I pivot my head to the side, digging my left fist into my lap. Heavy weights stack on my chest with every silent second that floats by.

“Sunflowers,” I blurt.

“What?”

I huff a wobbly breath as I place my cup down, my focus parking on him. His forearms are crossed on the table, long legs spread in that masculine way. He’s asking me to clarify my statement, but there’s no confusion lining the contours of his face.

Just expectation in his eyes.

Want.

Like this is the door he was waiting for me to open ever since we reunited on my driveway.

The hair at the top of his head has grown a tad more texture. His mustache and beard pepper his olive skin flawlessly. He’s so gorgeous. More gorgeous than I ever anticipated him being. And all I can do is force myself not to care. Convince myself that he’s anything but stunningly handsome.

I can’t care.