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Chapter One

Ethan

Why were Monday mornings so busy? Mornings were always busy, but Mondays were particularly crazy. Then again, after spending a boring weekend of doing nothing at home, a little chaos at work was usually welcomed.

But today I felt edgy. Antsy. Something was in the air.

I grabbed a cup and prepared a coconut chai, one of my favorite drinks.

Being a barista was the best job for a starving artist with an addiction to caffeine and chit-chat.

Not only did I get unlimited drinks and pastries, but I got to talk to people all day.

Being around people energized me in a way that not even my art could.

Unfortunately, as soon as I left work, I was completely alone. That’s why I soaked up as much life and energy and action at work as I could.

My fingers moved over the machines while I did my job on autopilot. I was good at it and it showed in the smile on my face. I would even go so far as to say it was fun.

Granted, it didn’t pay much or have any kind of upward mobility, but the early shift gave me plenty of time to think about my real passion. The passion that was almost ready to be shared with the world…

Almost.

Zane grabbed an order out of my hand and handed it to a customer. "Just send it already.” He turned back to me and waited for me to finish up the next drink. "What are you so afraid of?"

Maybe everything. Maybe nothing. I had no good answer. “It just needs a few more rounds of edits and I will. I totally will.” Probably .

"You’re a terrible liar." He sighed and turned away to take an order.

Zane and I had started working at Mocha Mist on the same day, but he didn’t have the same enthusiasm for the job as I did. He was just there until he graduated, and then he wanted to go into banking or investing or some boring number job.

Definitely not my style.

As much as I talked about wanting to publish my graphic novel, I wasn’t sure I ever would.

It was okay, but I couldn’t imagine letting anyone else look at it.

What if they hated it? In my heart, I knew I had to get over that fear if I wanted to sell it, but I wasn’t there yet.

And my book definitely wasn’t there. Yet .

“You wanna go to the gym with me later?" Zane waggled his eyebrows as he waited for the lady at the counter to figure out how to use the credit card reader. “It’s a total thirst trap.”

I laughed at the mere suggestion of me in a gym. "And what would I do there? Crush my feet with a dumbbell or break my neck flying off the treadmill?"

He laughed and grabbed a stack of cups. “You don’t even have to work out. Most of the time, I just slowly pedal a bike with a towel over my lap and enjoy the show.”

“Sounds fun but maybe some other time.” My mind wandered back to the drawings on my tablet and the dream I'd been dragging around for way too long. “I have this idea for a scene that I wanna work on.”

“Dude, you can’t keep adding scenes forever. At some point, you need to call it done and start shopping it.”

I groaned, hating this lecture, even though I needed to hear it as often as Zane felt he needed to give it. “I know. And I will.”

Zane snorted and passed an espresso over the counter. "When?"

I didn't answer. I couldn’t. It was impossible to even guess.

Instead, I handed an Americano to an impatient-looking woman and tried not to think about how weak I was. Maybe today I'd get the guts to contact a publisher.

Or tomorrow.

Or never.

The rush finally slowed down, and Zane and I took a breather against the counter.

He looked over at me and shook his head. "You're hopeless."

"Pathetic is a better word." I shrugged and took a deep breath. I was comfortable with that description. It fit me perfectly. "But at least I can make a mean espresso."

"Go take lunch." Zane pulled his phone out of his pocket and grinned down at whatever he saw. "It should be quiet for a while."

"Holler if you need me. I might lose track of time." Once I started drawing, there were very few things that could pull my attention away. But Zane was right about us having a decent window of peace, and I wanted to take advantage of it.

"You know I will." He turned to make himself a smoothie as I grabbed my tablet then settled in a quiet corner.

So much of my life was wrapped up in the pages of my book that the characters felt like my family. I flipped to a half-finished design and tried to look at it with a critical eye.

Maybe Zane was right. Maybe I could at least send it to one of the graphic novel publishers to see what they had to say.

But I was afraid.

Staring down rejection felt a lot like playing chicken with a train. Terrifying and exhilarating and something I would probably never actually do.

After a few minutes of musing, I let my e-pencil fly over the screen, solidifying lines and adding color. As predicted, I lost track of time. My focus was completely consumed, and I barely noticed the door opening and the sound of footsteps walking past me.

But something made me look up.

I don’t know if it was the hint of cologne that tugged at a memory buried deep in my mind or if it was the broadness of his shoulders, but once my gaze locked on him, I couldn’t tear it away.

The man shook the rain from his hair and ran his hand through the dark strands. He glanced at me, and I almost turned away to avoid being caught watching.

“Fuck me,” I whispered under my breath. I knew exactly who he was.

Mr. Baker. The man who drove us to all the track-and-field meets in middle school.

The man who bought us pizza and pop during our weekend-long video-game sleepovers.

The man I’d always had a crush on when I was growing up.

The man who was still my best friend Chris Baker’s dad.

He stood over the pastry case for a moment as my stomach did a stupid flip.

I tried to look busy with my tablet, but I couldn't stop glancing up at him. I hadn’t seen him in at least ten years. Chris and I drifted apart in high school and I stopped running track.

But now Mr. Baker was in my shop and looking finer than ever.

Damn, he had aged well. Just a hint of silver around his temples and a couple more laugh lines than I remembered, but he’d taken care of himself.

And did he own a tanning bed or just come back from a tropical vacation, because that shade of Golden God wasn’t one we saw very often in Seattle.

His eyes swept the room, and I suddenly turned away. A little too suddenly. Without realizing it, my mug went flying in one direction and my tablet tumbled out of my hand in the other. Instinctively, I reached for the mug as my tablet crashed to the ground.

My heart sank when I thought about it being broken. There was no way I could afford to replace it, and I was pretty sure dropping it when a hot guy glanced in my direction wouldn’t be enough to qualify for a manufacturer's replacement. “Fuck!”