Page 16 of Redemption

“Dane,” I introduce myself.

I can’t stop my gaze from cutting toward the espresso machine, but Abigail doesn’t appear when I say my name.

“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” Stacy observes, leaning toward me slightly.

“I’m not.” I suppress a sigh. My English accent often elicits this comment, and I’m getting impatient to speak to Abigail.

The sound of my voice doesn’t seem to have attracted her attention. She liked my accent when we spoke last night. Why isn’t she turning to greet me?

I anticipate her slight surprise at this “chance” second meeting: the way those pretty rosebud lips will part on a little intake of breath, and her remarkable aquamarine eyes will widen.

Maybe she’s shyer than I thought. And she’s sober now, so that might make her even more reticent to approach me. Is she embarrassed at how inebriated she was?

Curiosity consumes me. I forget to continue my polite conversation with Stacy and prowl down the length of the bar.

Abigail appears in profile. Her lips are slightly pursed as she focuses so intently on pouring out latte art that she doesn’t seem aware of my presence. Those lovely eyes are fixed on the steamed milk, but even from a side view, the light catches in the aqua pools, illuminating them like the Mediterranean Sea on a sunny day.

“Good morning,” I greet, prompting her attention.

“Morning.” She barely breathes the word, but her mouth quirks in a pleasant smile.

The perfectly polite, good Carolina girl is back.

But I know her secret now.

I’m not good.She whispered her forbidden truths last night, when she tormented me with her responses to my dark questions.

She wears a mask, just like I do. Her genteel veneer hides a sensual woman with taboo desires: an inner darkness that complements my own.

Unlike me, she’s not cold and calculated. She’s guileless and soft.

The perfect match for my cruel needs.

But she’s still not looking at me. She’s finished her latte art, but she’s moved on to grinding the espresso for my Americano.

She must be embarrassed about last night. I’ll put her at ease by speaking in my practiced bedside manner tone. I won’t allow any shame to get in the way of our connection.

“How are you feeling today?” I ask, noting the faint dark circles under her eyes.

I wonder if she has a headache from drinking too much. If so, I’ll make sure she takes a break to drink water and eat something before taking ibuprofen. I’m sure I can charm Stacy into allowing her colleague a moment to collect herself.

Abigail’s careful smile remains fixed in place, and she places a paper cup with my name on it beneath the espresso machine.

Irritation makes my own charming smile waver. I’m not sure how much longer I can tolerate this reticence.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she replies softly. “How are you?”

The rote question doesn’t hold the same depth of true interest that Stacy showed me. It’s a bland social nicety, a requirement for her job.

I’m finding her shyness annoying this morning rather than intriguing. Maybe pursing her was a mistake. If she can’t bring herself to make eye contact unless her inhibitions are lowered by alcohol, she might be too tedious to hold my attention.

“I’m feeling good,” I reply with forced nonchalance.

This is definitely getting tedious. I don’t want to engage in small talk with her.

“The whiskey at the dive bar last night wasn’t good enough to tempt me to drink more than two.”

“Oh,” she says blandly. “I don’t know much about whiskey unless it’s mixed with Coke.”

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