Page 126 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

He stares at me. Lost for words.

“Go get her, Dad.”

Chapter Forty Seven

Maeve

How is this my life again?

I’m standing behind the counter, nodding along while a man in a very expensive-looking suit mansplains what a flat white is, getting it so catastrophically wrong that it's almost impressive. I keep my smile fixed in place, but behind my eyes I am actively fantasising about yelling and throwing the coffee at him so everyone can hear it—because they bloody need to—, that a flat white does not belong in a large cup!

Instead, I hand him a flat white in a large cup—a latte, because that's what it is—and move to the next customer. Because, unfortunately, in the great list of things I swore I was done with, I have returned to the same pit of hell I walked out of all those months ago.

It took me over a month after returning to get off my arse and ask—grovel—for my job back. A full month of what can only be described as becoming an absolute heartbreak cliché. Watching countless sad romance films, I don’t even particularly like, purely because I needed something emotionally efficient enough to cry at while shovelling ice cream directly into my gob like I’m not lactose intolerant.

I paid for that, by the way. Multiple times.

Worth it, and also not worth it.

It was only a couple of weeks ago that I finally unpacked the suitcases I'd been stepping around, because unpacking meant admitting it was over.

I'm only semi-functioning now thanks to Iris, who staged what I can only describe as an emotional ambush disguised as a girls' night. Lured me in with snacks and wine.

So here I am. Back to my old life, as if the past nine months hadn’t happened. Back to serving people who think they're quirky because they order the most needlessly complicated drinks that aren’t on the menu.

The coffee shop is its usual early afternoon chaos—the hiss of the steam wand, the clatter of the portafilter, the low collective roar of a dozen conversations happening at once at a volume that suggests nobody in London has ever once been told to use their inside voice.

I move through it on autopilot, the way I always did. Take order, make coffee, smile, repeat. My body remembers the rhythm even when my head is somewhere else entirely.

I'm steaming the milk for what I'm fairly certain is my hundredth gingerbread latte of the day, because apparently November is the new Christmas, when someone tries to get my attention at the counter behind me.

I throw a cheerful “Be right with you!” over my shoulder, and finish the pour of the latte art.

Then a voice behind me says, very calmly—

“I can't wait any longer, angel.”

My hands stop.

That accent, I’d know anywhere, but it definitely does belong anywhere near a Zone 2 coffee shop. No, that drawl belongs back in Texas.

I turn around slowly, and for a solid three seconds my brain simply refuses to participate in reality.

Because Wade is standing in my coffee shop. In London. In the flesh, boots on the tiled floor, Stetson firmly on his head, sticking out like a sore thumb.

My mouth opens.

“Wade—,” I manage. It comes out smaller than I intend. “Wha—how are you—.”

“Had your address from your application,” he says. The corner of his mouth pulls into that half-smile I've spent three months trying to forget. “Got to your apartment first. Iris told me where you were.”

Iris. The sneaky little bitch, she could have at least warned me.

“No, I meant—” I shake my head. “Why are you here?”

He doesn't answer straight away. Instead, he steps up to the counter and looks at me the way he used to do on the porch in the mornings, before the ranch woke up properly, when it was just the two of us and the quiet.

“I’m here to bring my angel back home,” he finally says.