Page 141 of Problematic

Steam billowed over the counter, thick and hot, swallowing my hands, the machine, the tile in front of me. Kalon lunged forward. “I said I got it,” I barked.

He froze. Good boy.

I killed the power with one hand, grabbed the wrench with the other, and twisted the pressure release before the whole thing turned into a coffee grenade. Steam punched out across the floor in a hot rush, dampening my apron and curling my hair around my face.

I tightened the valve, checked the seal, and found the split in the little black gasket. I dug in the drawer under the register, found the emergency gasket kit I’d begged Sam to order three months ago, tore one open with my teeth, and fitted it into place. My hands shook, so I got mad at them until they stopped.

The wrench turned, and metal clicked. I reset the panel, flipped the power back on, and stepped away. For two seconds nothing happened. Then the machine hummed, warmed, and gave me one smooth, obedient hiss. I lifted both hands.

Kalon handed me a towel. His gaze slid over my face, my damp hair, my burned fingers. “You okay?”

“Define okay.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I wrestled with a cappuccino machine and won. Let me have my moment.”

His smile came easier this time.

My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out with my least-burned fingers.

NO FACE: Good girl.

My stomach dropped so hard it could have punched a hole in the tile.

Liv: Were you watching that?

NO FACE: I prefer the word admiring.

Liv: I prefer the word felony.

I glanced at the time on my phone. 12:26. Three hours and thirty-four minutes.

The doorbell chimed again, and a customer stopped short of the counter. Gray coat, black gloves pulled too far down. Human-looking at first, but his aura wound too tightly around him for that to be true.

He smiled when I reached the register. “Afternoon,” I said, because my body knew its customer script even when my instincts started putting furniture between us. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee.” His gaze moved over my face, then my throat, then down to my name tag, and he squinted. “Olivia.”

My fingers tightened around the marker. I hated when customers used my name like that, like they only needed it to put in a complaint.

“Do you like any syrups or creams added?” I asked, forcing a smile.

“You work every afternoon?” The question landed wrong.

My stomach tightened. “Depends who’s asking.”

Kalon went still by the grinder.

The man kept smiling. “I’ve seen you around. You deliver flowers too, huh?”

Kalon came up beside me. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t step in front of me. He simply arrived, large and quiet, and the space around the register changed.

“Order,” he said.

The man’s smile faltered. “Excuse me?”

“You’re holding up the line.” There was no line. There was also no room for argument in Kalon’s voice.