Page 6

“I don’t hate you, Miss Maddox—”
I shake my head in frustration. “Zarah.”
“Zarah. I’d just lost my brother and I wasn’t thinking clearly. Can we talk?”
I bite my lip. I don’t want to lose this connection to Max, but Gage took away an important chance to let me say goodbye. He might not hate me for my role in his brother’s death, but for a while, I hated him. Finally, I say, “Okay.”
I follow his lead and he guides me down the sidewalk, his hand hovering near my lower back. The Sweet Apple is only a block away when Gage stops and opens a door to a dark café. The rich scent of coffee meets my nose.
“Hey, Sierra,” Gage calls out, and the barista wiggles her fingers.
An emotion I can’t name pricks at me, and I bat it away.
“What are you having?” he asks me.
I stare at the board behind the gorgeous redhead who can’t stop drooling over Gage. I’m overwhelmed by the choices presented in a curly script, and my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth. The fact that I can’t do something as simple as order a cup of coffee humiliates me, and tears blur my vision. I’m so stupid.
“I can’t.” My shoulders slump and I turn to leave. I can’t do this. Can’t pretend I’m normal.
Ash ruined me. I’ll never have my life back.
Gage grabs my purse strap and halts me in my tracks. To pull away would cause a scene, and I’ve already done enough. Of course this lady knows me. Of course she thinks I’m a zombie who needs to be locked up.
Maybe I should be.
Locked away.
Safe.
“Two malted chocolates, hot,” Gage says and slides his bank card through the machine to pay.
We don’t talk, and I can’t look at him until we’re tucked into the shadows of the café. He sits in a corner seat giving himself a view of the entire coffeehouse. I wonder if he did that deliberately to look out for the paparazzi, or if he does it out of habit.
The barista places huge bowls in front of us, looking at me out of the corners of her eyes. I ignore it and focus on the coffee, inhaling the sugary aroma. She topped the lattes with huge mountains of whipped cream and sprinkled chocolate powder over that.
Maybe she has a crush on Gage. I wouldn’t blame her, and they seem to know each other.
“I’m sorry,” I say, but I speak to the whipped cream.
“Life’s a bit complicated, huh?” he says, wrapping his large, strong hands around the dark blue coffee bowl.
A hint of color peeks out from under his jacket sleeves. I’ve never been keen on tattoos. In our circles, tattoos are thought to be crass, trashy. Except Stella’s pretty dove. I’d like that. Something that would symbolize between light and dark.
Maybe one day.
“Yeah.”
Gage shrugs out of his black dress coat, and I follow his lead. It’s warm in here, and I have half an hour before I need to go.
I haven’t sipped my coffee yet, and Gage pushes my bowl closer and says, “Try it. It tastes like a malted milkshake. Have you had one before?”
I brighten. “Like Whoppers.”
“Exactly.”
It’s impossible to delicately sip around the mountain of whipped cream, and I dip my nose into the sugary froth.
Gage chuckles. “Here.” He gestures me closer, and I lean in. Using a paper napkin, he wipes the cream off the tip of my nose and the backs of his rough fingers graze my cheek. I meet his eyes and a fluttering whispers in my stomach. It’s not unpleasant, like a parent swinging their child around. Fun, but a hint of danger, too.