Page 54 of The Vagabond

He smirks, the corner of his mouth tilting up — not wide or overly friendly, but just enough to make my pulse jump. Then, without a word, he turns and walks out of the coffee shop.

That should’ve been the end of it. But he comes back the next day. And the day after that.

Always the same order. Always the same quiet, easy presence, like he’s got nowhere else to be. But each day, he asks me something new.

“Max, right?”

“You ever ride?”

“What are you studying?”

Each question is small enough to be harmless — but together, they start to braid a thread between us. A connection I didn’t ask for, one I don’t quite know how to cut. And each time he asks, I feel it: this subtle pull, this tension coiling tighter just beneath the surface.

I catch myself watching for him before he arrives, my stomach knotting when the door swings open, my fingers clenching too tightly around coffee cups when I realize it’shim.

I tell myself it’s nothing. That he’s just a customer. Just another stranger drifting through the background of my day, offering a flicker of routine in a life that’s otherwise chaos. Butdeep down, I know better. Because men like him don’t show up over and over just for the coffee.

And the worst part? Ifeelit when he’s near. The air changes, sharpens, tightens. My skin prickles when he walks in — like my body clocks his presence before my mind has a chance to catch up.

And even though I know better, even though every survival instinct in me should be on high alert, I find myself watching him. Wondering. What is it about him that pulls at me? Why do I catch myself waiting for him, counting the moments until the door creaks open again, until I hear his voice?

Something about him makes my blood fizz — not like Saxon. Saxon was dark silence, all sharp edges and watchful eyes, the kind of ache that slips under your skin and never quite leaves, no matter how many times you try to scrub it clean.

But Zack? Zack is disruption. Unpredictable, restless — the kind of energy that stirs up a room just by walking into it. Not careful or cautious.

He moves like someone who’s never learned consequences, a guy who’d kiss you mid-chaos, right when everything’s on the verge of coming apart — and somehow find amusement in that.

The first time he asked me out, it was with that crooked grin, like he already knew the answer.

“Come out with me.”

Notwould you like to,notdo you want to,just a statement dressed up like an invitation.

I said no. Five times. And on the sixth, I said yes — not because I wanted him, but because I wanted to feel something. Anything. Something sharp enough, loud enough, fast enough to drown out the ghost still clawing around in my chest.

Saxon’s ghost. Because no matter how many times I tell myself I’m free, there’s still a part of me waiting in that dark,holding my breath, aching for a man who carved himself so deep into me I’m still bleeding from the damage.

The bellabove the café door jingles, and I glance up, expecting a student or a stroller mom. Or Zack.

Instead, it’s my brother in law Brando Gatti, in full Armani black-on-black, sunglasses tucked into his collar, and a scowl that could level cities.

He walks in like the place personally offends him.

His gaze lands on me—and glitches.

“You workhere?”

I blink. “Wow. You’re quicker than I gave you credit for.”

He stares. Offended. Voice stern. “Maxine.”

“What?”

“You’re making coffee.”

I stare back. “Yes. And you’re breathing my oxygen. Want to see who gives up first?”

He steps closer.Gatti-close.The kind of close that would make most people instinctively back up—shoulders tight, feet retreating without conscious thought. It’s an alpha thing. ABrando Gattithing. That looming presence. The silent warning written into the set of his jaw and the cold fire in his eyes.

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