Page 135 of The Love You Fight For
I force myself to move slowly. I put on a pair of shorts and tank top. I throw my hair in a ponytail, but just before I leave the bedroom, I head back to the bathroom and put on some mascara and red lipstick.Just in case.
“Babe,” I call into the house as I walk through the house. “Cute note. Where are you?”
I force my voice to be light, but I can’t hide the slight excited waver in it. It’s just breakfast. It’s just coffee.Calm down.I don’t know if I’m trying not to get my hopes up or if I’m worried I’ll jinx it, but I’m still hyper-alert as move toward the kitchen.
I don’t smell coffee or breakfast.
I don’t hear movement. I peek out the sliding doors to the deck, but it’s empty.
The moment I step foot into the kitchen, I see a pink Gerbera daisy by the coffee pot. The pot is empty, but my travel mug from the local café is next to it, and I almost trip over my own feet as I rush to it.
There’s no note this time. Just the flower and the mug, so I snatch both and hurry to the driveway. I’m flinging open the door to Chris’s truck when I realize I didn’t put on shoes, but I don’t have to worry. My sandals are sitting on the bench seat right next to Chris’s truck keys and my handbag. I laugh out loud as I grab the sandals and slip them on before climbing into the cab of the truck.
It’s hard not to speed through town, and even though it’s less than a ten-minute drive to the café, I barely breathe. My hands are gripping the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white, and my cheeks hurt from the wide smile I’m fighting.
“Calm down, Sam. It’s just coffee. It’s just coffee.”
I repeat it over and over, but I can’t help it.
I want it to bemorethan just coffee.
I think it is.
I park, probably poorly, in the lot next to the café and force myself to walk through the doors even though every part of me wants to run. The barista smiles the moment she sees me.
“Morning, Sam,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’ll take that.”
“Good morning, Shelly,” I say slowly, confusion lacing my tone as I hand over the travel mug.
I watch as she takes the mug to the espresso machine and gets to work making my drink. I smile as I watch.
A lavender latte.
Something about the barista in our small-town café knowing my drink order before I place it fills me with warmth. Sure, Chris likely called ahead, but Shelly knows my order on her own. She starts my drink the moment I step through the door, and it always succeeds in making me smile. I grew up in this town, but it never felt like home until I was free from the Harper family name. Until I was able to shed all the baggage and bejustme. Just Sam.
I never had a home until I finally let Chris love me.
I take a deep breath and will away the prickle of tears I feel in my eyes. I focus on Shelly as she puts the lid on my latte, then takes a slice of quiche from the case and heats it up. The quiche is from The Princess. Chris’s recipe. We have a standing order to providethem weekly for the café. This week is one of my favorites: spinach, sun dried tomatoes, and pancetta.
I can smell it even before Shelly sets the plate and latte in front of me, and my stomach growls despite the rush I’m in.
“I have something for you,” Shelly says, setting a napkin and fork next to the plate, “but I’m under strict orders not to give it to you until you’ve eaten.”
My jaw drops, and for a moment, I consider arguing, but then I decide against it, reaching for the quiche and prepping to shove the whole damn thing in my mouth at once.
“Ah!” Shelly says on a laugh, halting my movements.
She grins as I stand frozen, then gestures to an empty table.
“You have tositand eat it.” I frown and she laughs again. “Strictorders, Sam. We don’t want to go against the man that feeds us.”
I sigh and give her a small smile.
“Okay. Fine. Thank you.”
I take my latte and quiche to the table and make myself enjoy it. I chew thoroughly before I swallow. I let my latte cool before I drink it. I push down the need to rush, to hurry, to get to the end goal. When I finish the last bite, I do feel better. Less jumpy. More grounded.
I laugh. Fucking Chris and his insistence on me eating actual meals. I’ll never tell him that he’s right, but he is.
