Page 31 of Take This Heart
“How’s Francine, Bosco?” I ask.
His eyes brighten slightly. “Fatter’n a tick. She caught a mouse last night and laid it at my feet.”
My nose wrinkles up before I can stop it. “Good…for her.”
Juju yells, “If anyone touches that last lemon scone before Goldie gets her hands on it, I swear I’ll start flinging biscotti.”
“Listen to you,” I say, grinning at Juju. “I approve.”
“You know I love you,” she says.
“I love you! And your lemon scones,” I add.
I shrug off my sweatshirt and look at my corner. It’s the perfect spot by the front window, sunlit in the morning and tucked just far enough from the door to be warm in the winter and breezy in the spring. When I’m in town, everyone leaves my spot open or moves when they see me coming. It’s sweet and makes me feel loved around here.
But no. No, no, no.
Not today, Lucifer.
Milo is sitting atmytable with his mug of coffee, his dumb, perfect profile looking maddeningly relaxed.
Once I have my coffee and scone, I go and stand over him, glaring and judging his basic coffee. I don’t see even a hint of cream in it.
He’s drawing and it takes a moment for him to look up. When he does, his eyebrows lift slightly.
“Excuse me. You seem to be in my seat.”
“Morning, Whitman. I wasn’t aware it was assigned seating.”
“It is, Lombardi.”
“Fascinating. I just sat down.” He makes a show of inspecting the table and chair. “Nope. Don’t see your name scratched into the wood or embroidered on the cushion.”
“I’ll scratch into the wood all right.”
His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile. “Tempting.”
I lean on the edge of the table, trying to get a better look at what he’s been drawing. A magnificent sketch of the antique chairs near the door. Why is that so annoying?
Annoyingly endearing.
Excuse me while I dry-heave.
We stare at each other. The café hums around us, but we’re locked in a stand-off.
“Fine,” he says finally, closing his sketchbook with an obnoxiously patient air.
I blink, momentarily disarmed.
He stands, but instead of picking up his things, he pulls out the chair across from where he’d been sitting—mychair—and gestures to it like he’s a freaking gentleman. As if.
“Sit,” he says. “We can share.”
“Share?”
“It’s a table, not a toothbrush.” He leans in and whispers so only I can hear, “But we’ve kissed, so why would it matter?”
I give him a disgusted look.
