Page 76 of The Alpha's Fallen Spell
“Sorry, what?” I ask, blinking.
“I said, that guy’s been trying to get your attention for like five minutes,” Margo jerks her chin toward Thomas, who is indeed waiting patiently at the counter.
“Right. Sorry.” I hurry over, forcing a smile. “The usual?”
“Please,” Thomas says, returning my smile with genuine warmth. “You seem distracted today.”
“Just busy,” I lie.
As I prepare his Americano, I feel rather than see Erik straighten in his chair. His presence has become a constant awareness, like a magnetic field that keeps pulling my attention, no matter how hard I resist.
Thomas accepts his coffee with a lingering touch on my hand. “I was thinking...There’s a new exhibition at the art museum this weekend. Maybe you and I could—”
“She already has plans,” Erik’s voice cuts in smoothly as he appears at the counter, empty mug in hand. “Refill, please. Black.”
Thomas stiffens, a flash of irritation crossing his normally pleasant features. “I don’t believe I was asking you.”
Erik smiles—all teeth, no warmth. “My mistake. I thought you’d want to know before embarrassing yourself further.”
“Erik,” I hiss, snatching his mug with more force than necessary. “That’s enough.”
His eyes lock with mine, and there is urgency in their depths. “I have something for you. Another gift.”
“I don’t want your gifts,” I say coldly, refilling his coffee.
“You’ll want this one.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out an envelope, which he places on the counter. “Flying lessons. Starting this weekend.”
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the envelope. “What?”
“You mentioned once that you’ve always wanted to learn to fly,” Erik says quietly. “That the freedom of being up there, controlling your own path through the sky, appealed to you.”
“I never told you that,” I whisper.
His smile turns gentle. “Not in words, perhaps. But I see how you look at planes when they fly overhead. How you linger over flight school advertisements in magazines.”
Thomas clears his throat. “I should go. Thanks for the coffee, Fiona.”
I barely notice him leave, my attention fixed on the envelope, on the impossible opportunity it represents. Flying lessons are expensive—prohibitively so. I looked into it when I first established myself here, calculating how long it would take to save up enough. Years, probably, since I’ve never wanted to use the money Maya keeps sending me.
“Take it,” Erik urges. “No strings attached.”
“There are always strings,” I reply, but my voice lacks conviction.
He leans closer. “The only string is that I’d like to be there for your first lesson. To see your face when you take the controls.”
I step back, overwhelmed by his proximity, by the sincerity in his expression. “I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
“It’s not nearly enough,” he counters, “but it’s a start.”
With that, he returns to his table, leaving the envelope on the counter—and me staring after him, caught between longing and suspicion.
At closing time, the envelope sits unopened next to the register, its presence a silent challenge. I wipe down tables with unnecessary vigor, aware of Erik still sitting in his corner, watching me with that infuriating patience.
“You gonna take it?” Margo asks, nodding toward the envelope as she hangs up her apron.
“No,” I say automatically.
Margo snorts. “Liar. You’ve been googling flight schools for months.”
