Page 43 of Collide
“I’ll have a caramel macchiato, please.”
“Black coffee,” Alex adds, still looking at me.
The barista smiles sweetly. “Can I tempt you with one of our organic, cruelty-free apricot bars?” She punches in the order before he even answers.
Alex turns to me, a playful question in his eyes.
I shrug.
“Yeah, we’ll take two of those,” he decides, handing over a fifty-dollar bill.
“Together or separate?” the barista asks.
He barely spares her a glance. “Together.” A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Keep the change.”
I frown, reaching for my purse. “No, I can pay for myself.”
He places his hand over mine before I can argue, his touch warm and firm. “It’s a date, remember?” His eyes don’t leave mine as he leads me back to the loveseat pressed against the exposed brick wall.
I expect him to take the seat across from me. Instead, he slides in right beside me. Our thighs touch.
He never lets go of my hand.
A blush creeps up my neck. Holding hands seems so…juvenile. But in this moment, it feels so intimate. Not that I have much to compare it to.
Our conversation picks up from where we left off yesterday, flowing between us so easily. His stormy eyes light up as we exchange stories about our cultures—Sweden, the Philippines, Australia. Between the two of us, we could start up our own little United Nations.
Our drinks arrive, but the conversation never ceases. He gently caresses my hand with his thumb, his long fingers and large hand engulfing mine.
While I talk, Alex leans forward slightly, his fingers curling around his mug, eyes fixed on me with an easy kind of interest. I’m not used to this feeling.
Is this what I’ve gone without all these years?
We bond over our shared experience as children of divorce. He jokes about his family traditions. Tells stories about backpacking through Europe with his friends, even the time he served in the Swedish military.
The nerves from earlier slowly fade away.
By the time our coffee cups are empty, I realize something. I like knowing things about him. And for the first time in a long time, I want someone to know about me, too.
“I had a wonderful time,” I say as we stand, assuming the date is over.
“Done already?” He grins. “You agreed to a date. The day and our date aren’t over yet.” He leans down, his breath warm against my ear. “And maybe the night too.”
The scent of coffee and apricots curls around me, making my head spin. Heat rushes to my cheeks.
Night?
I hope he isn’t expecting anything. Panic rises in my throat.
“Um, that better be a PG-rated night date, because I amnotthat kind of girl.” I barely manage to get the words out without tripping over them.
He winks, unfazed, and waves down a passing taxi.
I let out a nervous laugh as we pile into the backseat together.
He casually gives the taxi driver the address of our next destination and leans back, draping his arm around me.
For a moment, I stiffen—not from the closeness, but fromhim. There is something magnetic about him, pulling me in.
