Page 17 of Redemption

My smile quirks despite my irritation, and I indulge in one of her secrets. “You prefer sweeter drinks.”

She blinks, and we finally make eye contact. Her pale cheeks flush a perfect shade of pink, and I think she’s about to thank mefor the cosmopolitans I bought her last night. Instead, her gaze is a bit wary.

“Yeah, I guess I’m a cliché. I do enjoy girly, pink drinks.”

I don’t understand her strange energy. Her eyes are keen on mine, but they’re guarded.

“Do you want milk in your Americano, Dane?”

She says my name, but it’s not husky with remembered lust. There’s no familiarity in the way she addresses me.

It takes me a full three seconds to realize that she doesn’t recognize me. Apparently, she was so drunk last night that she blacked out our meeting.

I’m silent for too long, because she fills the awkward moment with a nervous laugh.

“I guess not. Black Americano, got it.”

She puts a lid on the cup that has my name written on it and places it on the counter between us.

Something tightens my gut, a strange sensation that I’ve felt before, but never to this degree. The pang is harsh enough to make me grimace.

Anger.

I’m angry that she doesn’t remember me. She doesn’t rememberus, the electric connection we share.

She drops her lovely eyes and quickly returns to her espresso machine. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the milk jug.

I realize that I’m scowling.

I never lose control of my facial expression.

“I’m sorry,” I say as smoothly as I can manage. The last thing I want is to scare her off.

I’m more than just annoyed, but I’m finding the intensity of my response to her fascinating, even if it is unpleasant.

“I was short with you. I suppose I might’ve had more whiskey last night than I thought. A bit of a headache this morning.” The lie comes easily. “The coffee will help. Thank you.”

“No worries. Enjoy!” Her sunny smile is back, but she keeps her focus on her work.

Fuck.

I intimidated her.

How did this go so badly? I’d expected to saunter into the café and sweep her off her feet. We should be exchanging numbers right now, and she’s supposed to be sitting across from me at a sumptuous dinner in a few hours.

And she’s meant to be screaming my name in my bed shortly thereafter.

Instead, she won’t even look at me.

An odd feeling comes over me again, and I’m more reluctant to acknowledge this one.

Insecurity?

The ground feels like it’s shifting under my feet, and the angry churning in my gut has been replaced by a disconcerting knotting sensation.

It’s unpleasant and completely foreign to me.

Fascinating.

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