Page 2 of Compulsion

His name is Dane.

That’s what it says on his cup every morning when he places his order like clockwork at eight-oh-five AM.

The name suits him: it’s a hot name for an insanely gorgeous man.

He’s so beautiful that I can barely look at him, much less hold eye contact.

Sometimes, I indulge myself when he’s chatting with whoever is on register. He’s charming, with a brilliant white smile that flashes in contrast with the dark, perfectly manicured stubble that covers his anvil-sharp jawline. Midnight-black hair is artfully swept back from his heartbreaking face, longer on topand cropped close at the sides. Heavy brows that might be too harsh on another man accent his boldly masculine features.

Except for that soft, sensual mouth. It would be almost feminine if it weren’t for his otherwise rugged perfection.

Stacy heaves a dreamy sigh as soon as he greets her. His deep voice rolls through the small café, his English accent enhancing his refined aura.

He moves past the register to stand at the end of the bar, waiting expectantly for his Americano. I keep my eyes on the milk I’m currently steaming for a flat white and try my best to ignore the shivery sensation elicited by his attention on me.

“Good morning, Abigail.”

His voice is shockingly intimate, and the smooth cadence caresses my name.

Dane is friendly with everyone. The accent and deep timbre are seductive enough to make any woman swoon; his allure has nothing to do with me personally.

“Hi.” I manage a breezy greeting but fix my attention on the swan I’m attempting to pour onto the top of the flat white.

Through sheer force of will, I keep my lips curved in my usual affable smile despite the fact that my soul is shattered into jagged pieces that cut at my heart. I brush my fingers over the small unicorn badge that I keep pinned to my apron. The pink and gold enamel is smooth and familiar beneath my shaky touch. I take half a heartbeat to connect with my lavender cupcake and smiling iced coffee pins, too, until my falsely bright grin matches their whimsical demeanor.

My outward disposition is my customary pleasant smile once again, but I still can’t bring myself to meet Dane’s stunning eyes. His gaze is keen enough to cut through the façade I’m desperately working to maintain. I’ve crafted it through sheer determination and stubbornness over the last two years, and it’s so solid now that I mostly believe it myself.

Until last night wrecked it, the traumatic experience exposing the darkness at my core that no number of sunny smiles can dissipate.

“Sorry, it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano,” I apologize. “We’re really busy this morning.”

Truthfully, it’s a fairly typical morning for everyone in the Sunny Side Café.

Except for me.

Not after what happened to me.

Proprietary hands on my body. A terrifying, ferocious growl that barely sounds human. A macabre white skull standing out in sharp contrast to the black ski mask.

My stomach lurches, and I swallow quickly to quell the surge of nausea. I focus on the lingering bitter taste of the espresso I quickly downed a few minutes ago, when I’d been running late for my shift.

The scent of coffee fills my senses, the familiar smell permeating the air and reminding me of the drink orders that are piling up to my left.

I look at the swan that I created on the flat white. The stylized bird is bright white against the espresso-tinged foam that surrounds it.

A harsh but familiar noise starts up behind me. Stacy is griding a bag of coffee beans that a customer purchased at the register.

“Abigail?”

I suck in a shocked breath when my name in his lilting accent hits me like a gut punch.

My mind scrambles, and I struggle to continue practicing what I remember of the grounding technique I learned from the single therapy session I did in college.

Taste, smell, see, hear…

I’m forgetting one of my senses. There’s something else I should focus on to complete the act of grounding myself.

But all I can think about is that bright white skull glowing through the darkness of my apartment in the middle of the night. The fear that tasted like copper on my tongue. The abject horror when my body?—

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