Page 26 of The Coffee Bar on Camellia Court

In his drinking days, he'd always kept a bottle behind his passenger seat. When he got sober, he'd cleared out every drop of alcohol from his apartment and truck. He even avoided the tavern despite missing their catfish fritters.

But then he'd started wondering—had he checked thoroughly? Was it possible there might be a fugitive bottle still hiding out under that seat?

In moments, he'd begun to fixate on the idea, picturing it in his head, wedged between the brackets that slid the seat back and forth.

It had angered him, that fixation, and, determined to do the right thing, Alex had gotten out to look, intending to toss any findings in Juno's trash.

After some rooting around, his fingers had closed around the familiar weight of a bottle. He'd hardly believed it, having assumed that it had all been twisted, wishful thinking on his part. Somehow, though, one rogue fifth had evaded his cleanout. He'd hesitated, suddenly paranoid—what if Juno had security cameras in the alley? What if she'd been watching him the whole time, deliberately staying away?

Then he'd made the very bad decision to tuck the bottle inside his flannel, clomp back around to the driver's side of his truck, and climb back in to continue waiting for Juno's return.

As time had passed, the comfort the whiskey had offered was too much to resist. He'd just needed a reprieve from the chaos inside his head. One good swallow. Maybe a second.

And then Juno was there, shining a light in his face. On his failure.

Now, in the light of day, shame rolled through him with such force that he clutched his stomach. Three years sober—meetings, milestones, hard-earned chips—all thrown away in one moment of weakness because he was afraid to tell Juno about his demons.

And of all people to witness his downfall, it had to be the one woman he wanted so badly to impress.

Why couldn't he stop messing things up?

When the contents of his stomach stayed where they were, he forced himself to sit up slowly, his head protesting every movement. The events of the previous night came back in fragments. Juno finding him in the truck. Insisting he stay at her place for the night. Helping him up the stairs. The look on her face—not disgust or anger, but something worse, something that brought an overwhelming urge to cover his face and weep like a child: pity.

Besides, he didn't deserve her concern. He certainly didn't deserve her kindness.

"You're such a loser, Frampton," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.

The room spun as he scooted forward to the edge of the cushion. His injured ankle throbbed inside the walking boot, but it was a minor discomfort compared to the hammer striking his temples. The trash can Juno had placed beside the couch sat mercifully empty. At least he hadn't disgraced himself further.

Somewhere below, he could hear the gentle hum of the coffee shop in operation. Juno would be down there working, flashing that friendly smile as she served the regulars who depended on her to start their day right. Of course she wasn't up here, dealing with a hungover mess who'd shown up on her doorstep in the middle of the night, uninvited and unwanted. The woman had a business to run, a life of her own to lead.

There was a glass of water on the coffee table, the corner of a folded note tucked under it. In Juno's neat handwriting, he read:Bathroom's all yours. Towels in the cabinet, a new toothbrush on the counter. Help yourself to anything else you need.

He picked up the glass of water, his mouth pasty. He had downed half of it when he heard the front door open.

"Oh," Juno said, pausing in her entryway. "You're awake."

She was professional and put-together in her black Juno's Coffee Bar apron, a stark contrast to how he must look. Her eyes swept over him, assessing. There was that pity again.

"I was just coming to check on you," she continued, stepping into the apartment. "How's the head?"

"Not so good." Alex set the glass down carefully. "Juno, I'm so sorry—"

"Hold that thought." She disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a bottle of medication. "Take two of these. Then shower. And brush your teeth. You'll feel more human."

He accepted the pills gratefully. "You should be furious with me."

"Maybe I am," she replied, her expression unreadable. "But right now, I'm more concerned about why you were drinking in your truck in my alley. And after three years sober."

The simple observation—that she knew exactly how long he'd been sober—caught him off guard. It mattered to her?

"I'll go back downstairs and grab you some coffee and something to eat," she continued. "Poppy can handle things for a few minutes while we talk, if you're up to it after your shower."

"You don't have to…." His words faded at her stern expression.

"I know I don't have to." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "Just get that shower. And do it now; I'll be back soon, and I don't have all morning."

After she left, Alex dragged himself to the bathroom, wincing at his reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes, stubble bordering on beard, hair sticking up at odd angles. No wonder she'd looked at him the way she had.

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