Page 37 of Defensive Desire

"Hi, Mom."

"Emma, dear. I tried calling the café but it seems you're opening late today." Her voice carries that familiar note of disappointment wrapped in sugar-coating.

I glance at the clock.

It's not even 7 AM.

Chapter & Grind doesn't open until 8.

"I'm right on schedule, actually, Mom." I swing my legs over the bed, immediately searching for my slippers. "Just about to head downstairs and get the heater started for the day."

"Well, that's something, I suppose."

The soft sound of china clinking comes through the line. I picture her at the breakfast nook, Dad's newspaper folded beside her untouched toast.

"I just got off the phone to Melanie. She mentioned she saw you with one of those hockey players yesterday. The large one? The fighter?"

Of course Melanie told her.

I close my eyes, counting silently to three. "His name is Logan, Mom. And yes, we had dinner."

A delicate pause follows. "Well, I suppose it's... adventurous of you. Just like your little coffee shop."

The way she says "little" makes it sound like I'm running a lemonade stand rather than a thriving business.

"Chapter & Grind is doing really well, actually. We're in the running for—"

"That's nice, dear." Her voice turns crisp, dismissive. "Listen, I've got to run. The garden club is counting on me for centerpieces today. I was just calling so your littleexcursionswith the hockey team don't make you forget Melanie's birthday dinner next weekend."

The line goes dead before I can respond.

I stare at the phone, the warm happiness from last night cooling at the edges like espresso left too long.

"Nice talking to you too, Mom," I mutter to the empty room.

I force myself out of bed, pad to the shower, and let the hot water wash away the familiar sting of inadequacy.

As steam fills the bathroom, I try to recapture last night's magic.

Logan's fingers laced with mine, his smile, that perfect kiss.

But now I'm mentally rearranging my weekend schedule to fit in Melanie's birthday dinner, wondering if I should bring a plus-one, and trying to prepare for the inevitable questions about "where this little café experiment is headed."

Dammit, Emma. Don't let her in your head. Not today.

My phone buzzes again as I'm toweling off, and I steel myself for Round Two of the Cynthia Carter Morning Show.

But this time when I check, it's Logan.

Morning, gorgeous. Slept like a rock thinking about you. Practice at 9, but coffee after?

Just like that, warmth floods back through me.

I type back quickly:Yes please. I'll save you a muffin. The good kind.

His response is immediate:You're the good kind.

I press the phone to my chest, ridiculous smile on my face. Logan had looked at me like I was his entire world last night.