Page 39 of Lemon Drop

I waited my turn, pretending not to hear the totally unsubtle, appreciative comments coming from the pair of women behind me. Pretty soon, the cashier was beaming up at me, pearl white smile absolutely stunning against her lovely, umber skin.

“How may I help you, sir?” she asked, her lilting accent testimony to the West African roots better preserved here than on the American mainland.

“I’d like a large coffee,” I began, then stopped.

“Black?” she prompted.

I shook my head as a realization dawned on me. I had not made my own coffee order in years. And even when I had, it hadn’t tasted like the deep, sweet beverage that Topaz sat in front of me five days a week and Roxana butchered the other two.

“I… uh…”

She looked up at me patiently as I stumbled. Finally, some part of her pitied my stupid ass.

“You want it with cream?” she asked.

Did I want it with cream? I thought about that, about how the coffee Topaz brought was far from dark black of an untouched brew.

“Yeah. Cream. And something sweet. Something like chocolate.”

She looked at me thoughtfully. Then one of the women from behind us piped up.

“Like chocolate syrup?” the one with the copper-colored weave suggested.

“I’m not… maybe…” I mumbled.

She kissed her teeth, and started talking shit as I turned back to the cashier. I stared at the drink board, feeling lost. Was my drink espresso based? And what the fuck was matcha?

“Sir, would you like to step aside and think about what we offer? You can come back as soon as you make up your mind,” she prompted softly.

I nodded once, slightly embarrassed at my cluelessness. “Yeah, that sounds⁠—”

“He’ll have a Café Mocha, extra chocolate syrup, light whip, with a dusting of cocoa powder and sugar.”

The voice came from behind me, simultaneously sweetly familiar and enraging. I turned as Topaz Waters swayed that perfect body to the counter and slid in front of me.

“Did I ask you for help?” I muttered.

She looked over her shoulder. It hadn’t even been a week, and I missed that gorgeous face… bad.

“You rarely do when you need it so bad,” she shot back before turning to the cashier. “Please add a large coffee, three sugars, three French vanilla creams. He’s paying.”

My brow raised, but I stayed quiet. The cashier repeated our orders, gave me the total, and I tapped my card against the reader. Topaz moved to the side of the counter to wait, pretending to study a display of pastries. I followed her. She looked up at me, apple green gaze suspicious.

“What?” I asked.

She shook her head, and I noticed for the first time that her wig or weave or whatever it was, was gone. Natural brown curls spilled everywhere. I loved her hair. It made her look different from the perfectly polished woman who walked into Masters Capital every morning. This Topaz looked softer, touchable.

I loved⁠—

“Nothing,” she said, interrupting my reverie. Then, her eyes narrowed. “Are you following me?”

I almost laughed. “Following you?”

“Yes, Saadiq. Following me. I leave Texas, come all the way to Port Isle, and less than a week later, you just happen to be standing in the same coffee shop as me?”

Shorty sounded so skeptical she might as well be calling me a lie to my face. Ain’t no way I could let that ride, even if seeing her standing there looking all soft and pretty had me guilty of a whole lot more than I planned to admit.

“First of all, this island ain’t that damn big,” I pointed out.