Page 45 of Go Back to December

Whatever painkillers they gave him must have hallucinogenic properties. Maybe they’re some kind of experimental psychotropic with approximate effects because his words are making me fall into a stupor.

“I wanted to work out everything about the café before the merger was completed. I didn’t know they would announce everything at the party. That’s what I was trying to tell you when I followed you to the station.”

“If you hadn’t chased me, I might not be here. I haven’t properly thanked you for it," I whisper.

He grunts, like he’s embarrassed, or exasperated, or possibly just too tired to speak.

And maybe because it’s dark, and he’s not copus mentis, I ask, “Why do you want to help save the café?”

When I look back, Baz is fast asleep.

Chapter Twelve

Baz smells delicious in the morning.

My mind will not surrender this piece of information, despite how hard I’m working to drown out his crisp woodland scent with the aroma of brewing coffee and spinach omelet. While I flip the eggs in his expensive non-stick skillet, I refuse to allow myself to be distracted by the sight of him in a tight T-shirt and loose track pants, hair wet from the shower.

When I turn around with his omelet, he’s pulling himself onto a barstool, bad leg jutted out like a jackknife, and it takes a good measure of restraint to keep my eyes on the plate.

This attraction to Baz is a truth that’s growing harder to run from. I need to make the most of today and tomorrow to secure what I need to help the café, so I can get the hell out of his apartment, and his personal life.

“Coffee?”

He gives me a look like I asked if he wants oxygen, and I smother a smile as I pour him a mug and add a splash of milk to lighten the dark roast.

“Thank you.”

The blinding spark of that genuine smile, combined with an unsolicited expression of gratitude from Sebastian P. Johnson, is definitely not helping Project Turnoff.

“Really,” he adds softly. “Thanks for all this. And yesterday. I thought it was going to be unbearable. It wasn’t. Because of you.”

I manage a nod and warn myself not to read too far into his words. It’s as treacherous as lingering over the memory of his hands on my skin last night. And what we whispered to each other in the dark.

He takes a mouthful of omelet and frowns, and I’m so profoundly relieved that he’s about to complain about his food, I feel myself smiling before he opens his mouth.

“This has cheese.”

“Correct.” I pour my coffee and add copious amounts of hot milk.

“I don’t eat omelets with cheese.”

“You never order them with cheese. Or yolks. And when you send back the omelets that you claim are tasteless, rubbery, undercooked and under-seasoned, this is what we make you instead.”

“That kind of misrepresentation could land you in serious trouble.”

“Oh, you’re the only one who gets the swap.” I pop the toast from the toaster and spread it with a thick layer of almond butter.

“Why?”

I slap on my service smile. “Because you’re our number-one customer.”

Baz takes a heaping mouthful and nods at my plate. “If cheesy yolks are so superior, where are yours?”

I shrug. “I don’t care for omelets.”

“Come on.”

I shrug again.