Page 25 of Compulsion

11

ABBY

Dane enters the café, and my cheeks heat with a mix of embarrassment and regret. Our date had held so much promise, and the sour ending has left me feeling awfully hollow ever since.

I’m fucked up, broken deep inside. It’s why I haven’t allowed myself to date for two years, and I’ve found my sexual release in anonymous online erotica.

Going out with Dane was a mistake for so many reasons.

So, I avoid eye contact while he’s ordering at the register and brace myself for the moment when I’ll have to hand over his Americano with a polite smile. I can’t quite roll the stiffness from my shoulders, and my rigid posture persists as I grind the espresso for his coffee.

“Good morning, Abigail.”

It’s the same smooth, suave tone he uses with me every morning, that enticing accent caressing my name.

“Hi.” I attempt a breezy but perfunctory greeting. “Your Americano will be ready in one minute.”

The rich espresso is already pouring into the paper cup. All I have to do is top it off with hot water within the next twenty seconds.

“Take your time,” he replies smoothly. “I’m going to sit in today.”

I blink and can’t help glancing up at him in surprise. Our eyes lock.

“But you always take your coffee to-go,” I blurt. “Do you want a mug?”

It’s an inane question, and it comes out on autopilot after years as a barista.

His smile takes on an indulgent twist. The smirk is almost arrogant, but he’s so unbearably handsome that it doesn’t come off as overly cocky.

“It’s fine as-is,” he reassures me. “I decided to sit in and read for a while this morning. It’s a bit wet outside.” He gestures one of those big, masculine hands in the direction of the glass frontage, indicating the stormy day. Rain falls in warm, fat drops as thunder rolls gently in the distance.

Lightning will be striking over the ocean right now. Longing tugs at my chest. I’d so much rather be painting the tempest than pouring coffee this morning.

I blow out a soft sigh and turn my attention back to Dane’s Americano, grateful that his comment about the weather offered me the brief distraction I needed to break from his intense eye contact.

I place his coffee on the counter between us and quickly withdraw my hand before our fingers can brush accidentally.

“How are you today?” he asks when I don’t look at him again.

“I’m doing well, thanks.” It’s a rote, cheery response.

I glance up out of reflexive politeness, but I stop myself before I make the mistake of meeting his entrancing eyes again. Instead, my gaze fixes on the book he’s holding casually athis side. His fingers conceal most of the title, but I’m familiar enough with the shape and shade of the font that I recognize it instantly.

The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.

I’ve read it at least half a dozen times, and the worn copy on my nightstand is a testament to my love for the dark, fantastical story.

“I love that book,” I exclaim before I can think better of it. “What part are you on?”

His low chuckle rumbles toward me, low as the thunder outside. “No spoilers, Abigail,” he admonishes. “I just bought it this morning.”

“You’ll have to tell me what you think when you finish.” I’m gushing, and I can’t help it. “It’sso good.”

I linger over the final words, and Dane’s eyes flash with something like predatory, carnal awareness. As though I’ve just expressed orgasmic joy in the middle of the café.

My cheeks flush, but I can’t suppress my genuine smile. “I hope you like it.”

“I want to know whatyoulike about it. Maybe you could tell me when you finish your shift.”

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