Page 13 of Prince of the Northwest Forest
“Um, yes,” I say. “I would like a cup of coffee, please. And a blueberry muffin. I am staying in room, um …” I show him the folded card that holds my key, which has the room number written on it.
He takes the envelope, and our fingers brush. Again, I feel … drawn to him. Huh.
“Cool. What kind of coffee would you like?” He returns the key to me and reaches into the pastry display case with tongs.
“Coffeecoffee.”
Setting down a muffin on a plate, he raises an eyebrow. “Does that mean you like it black, or does it mean I should surprise you?”
There’s a hammer tattoo on his forearm in that same vintage style. It’s cool.
He’s waiting for me to say something.Firecats. I feel my pulse in my ears. “Surprise me. But keep it simple. I don’t care for drinks that are overly sweet.”
“Deal. I’ll bring it to your table.” He pats the closest coffee machine. “Gandalf can make anything.”
I furrow my brows. “Gandalf?”
He shrugs. “That’s what our manager Sam calls it. I think because it’s a wizard at making coffee.”
“Coffee making is a kind of sorcery, that’s for sure,” I say.
The barista smiles, and it makes me tingle inside. That’s weird. I shake it off.
Carrying my muffin with me, I find an empty seat by the front window. Perfect. I can watch people come in and go out and pass by on the plaza.
Except I’m distracted by what’s going on behind the counter. The man moves around the coffee machine with suchcompetence, packing beans into the metal filter, sliding a cup under the nozzle, frothing milk.
It makes a lot of noise, but when it’s done, he brings me the coffee in a mug on a saucer and places it on the table in front of me with a flourish and a clink.
“It smells heavenly,” I admit. I pause, wondering if I should pull my hood back or if my face will scare people away. Even if they don’t know how I got the scar, it still makes people recoil. But the hood hiding it also gets in the way sometimes.
Ah, fuck it.
I lower the hood, and the man doesn’t flinch. I pick up the mug and take a tentative sip, then nod. “Tastes that way, too.”
“Will that be it?” the man asks, lingering at my table.
Will that be it?
I don’t want to say yes. But I don’t know what else I should say.
I have my breakfast. I’m here to be in a public place where people congregate so I can look for Mats.
Even though part of me wants to talk with this man.
“That is all,” I finally say.
“Awesome.” He exchanges a look with the other barista. “How long are you staying at the hotel?”
“I’m not sure. I’m working”—temporarily—“as a new groundskeeper.”
“Ah. Then, welcome. I’m Justice. Justice Laurel. And over there is Daryl Tishman.” He gestures to the man back at the counter, then reaches his hand out.
I shake it. “I’m Kalle,” I say, leaving off the rest of my name. Navigating how to ask about my brother discreetly without being so reserved that I don’t find out anything is proving difficult. Better to err on the side of caution, though. If Mats in fact ran away and he gets a whiff that I’m looking for him, he might leave fast.
Justice shakes my hand warmly, and the hairs rise on my nape. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope to see you around more,” he says with a wink. “Love the boots.”
We both glance down at them. “Thanks.” I’m … giddy. Floating. Bubbles rise in my chest and pop.
