Page 31 of Prince of the Palisades

“Let me guess,” I say, amused, “even more caramel?”

“Extra, extra caramel drizzle.” He strikes a pose like a boy band member—arms crossed, chin on his knuckles, smoldering eyes and lips puckered.

I can’t hold in my laugh. It dies quickly when the door leading to the café’s back room swings open and out walks Reiss. I freeze like if I don’t make any sudden movements, he won’t notice me.

He does.

His eyes narrow. Then, he yells over his shoulder, “Ma!Dom’s at the register again. We’re breaking, like, at least a dozen child labor laws.”

A woman’s voice from the back shouts, “Dominic Ezra Hayes!”

“You’re such a narc,” Dominic complains, hopping down from his stool.

Reiss’s eyes grow cartoonishly wide. “Who taught you that word?”

“Megan.”

“Megan’s a terrible influence,” Reiss says.

Dominic sucks air through his teeth, stomping away. “You’re a terrible brother!”

“That’s my job,” Reiss calls to the swinging employee door before turning to me. “Were you really gonna order the Dom Special?”

I shrug. “Sounded interesting.”

“It’ll give you diarrhea.” Something flashes in his eyes. “Actually, you look like you need a good stomach cleanse.”

My face prickles. But I’m not angry. Not when his lips curve upward as he watches me from behind the counter. He’s wearing the same black apron as Dominic. I guess his family owns the shop.

“Fine.” I cross my arms. “What doyourecommend?”

You can tell a lot about someone by their coffee shop order. I want to know what he thinks of me. When he looks at me, what does he see?

Reiss doesn’t falter under my gaze. “I’ll surprise you,” he says.

“Shouldn’t you ask if I have any allergies?” I inquire. “Dairy issues?”

He sighs. “Do you?”

“Nope,” I say, satisfied at the way his brows furrow in annoyance.

Then, I see it. The little crinkle in the bridge of his nose. Like he’s fighting a smile that never appears.

He up-nods at Ajani. “For you? Ajani, right?”

She looks marginally impressed. “Tea. Black.”

“Got it.”

When Reiss walks away from the register, never typing in our orders or telling us a price, I say anxiously, “Wait! I can pay.”

“Your money’s no good here,” he says, already behind the espresso bar, filling a metal pitcher. “Find a table. Let me do my job in peace.”

My next protest evaporates in my throat. I’m too distracted watching him.

Reiss’s movements are effortless. The flexed cords of muscles in his forearms as he steams the milk before he glides over to a tea station. He bobs his head to the café music, in a zone. Once again, I’m nobody to him. I don’t pout or skulk over to a corner table, wanting his attention on me for a little longer.

I’m being silly. Reiss is atwork. It’s not like there’s anything going on between us either. We had one moment at the party. Then, the thing at my locker. A five-second connection over shoes during the auditions. That doesn’t mean anything, right?

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