Page 3 of Glitches and Kisses (The Havenwood #2)

Evan

Havenwood moved at its usual, unhurried pace. Early April brought mild days that coaxed people outside, though the evenings still held a chill. A few folks lingered outside Bright Horizons Bookstore, their laughter drifting on the breeze as a car rolled quietly down the street.

Inside The Rivermere Bistro, late afternoon light streamed through tall windows, casting soft streaks across dark floors and green leather booths.

The air was warm and full of comforting smells from the open kitchen.

The gentle sizzle of pans and low murmur of the chefs blended with soft jazz and the quiet clink of glasses.

It was that perfect in-between hour, just before the dinner rush. The space felt calm, like the night hadn’t quite started yet.

And he was here.

Again.

The one with the cutting glare and the quicker tongue. The one who had practically radiated reluctance the first time he’d stepped through the Bistro’s doors, only to keep coming back. Mr. Broody, Sarcastic, and Secretly Gorgeous in a Very Annoying Way.

I saw him the second he walked in, just like I had the last three times this week. Which, in itself, was hilarious, considering the sheer amount of annoyance he had shown when I first greeted him.

And yet, there he was.

Again .

Tucked into his usual corner booth, third from the back, seat against the wall, laptop open in front of him like a shield.

His dark brows were drawn together in deep concentration, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if he were about to tackle something very important, which would require his full, undivided attention.

Except…

He wasn’t typing.

No, he was watching me. Or rather, trying not to watch me. It was subtle, the way his eyes turned their scrutiny toward me, quick, barely a glance, like he thought he could get away with it unnoticed.

But I noticed. I always noticed.

A slow, knowing grin formed at the corner of my mouth.

“Caught you.”

He startled, just a fraction. A barely-there twitch of his hand, a slight shift of his shoulders, but it was enough to make me smile.

I anticipated this. His arrival. His routine. The way he sunk into his booth, convinced he was here for the food and not for whatever this thing was between us that he refused to acknowledge.

So, naturally, I had his drink already waiting for him. An Americano, strong and dark, no sugar, no cream.

I slid up to his table without hesitation, setting the cup down with a smooth, easy motion before dropping into the seat across from him, making myself completely at home.

I shouldn’t be this drawn to him. He’s not my type.

Not even close. He’s guarded, grumpy, impossible to read.

and yet, somehow, all of that only makes me want to keep trying to read him.

Maybe it’s the chase. Maybe it’s the challenge.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes look up like I’m an interruption and a puzzle all at once.

Noah Patel is undeniably handsome, and I dare say intelligent, but I’m not ready to give him that compliment just yet. I want to know how he thinks. What makes him crack a smile. What he looks like when he lets his guard down completely.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying the unfolding mystery of figuring out why I care so much.

His eyes turned from the coffee to me, then back again.

A slow blink.

Then, flatly, “You’re not my waiter.”

I taunted him. “I’m making an exception.”

He huffed. “Why? ”

I shrugged, leaning forward just slightly, arms resting on the table, studying him with open amusement. “Because you keep coming back.”

His lips parted slightly, like he had a response ready, probably something dry, dismissive, and sarcastic enough to put the distance back between us. But then he hesitated for just a second.

And that second? That was mine.

Noah didn’t look up at first, his fingers still hovering over the keys as if willing words to appear on the screen through sheer force of will. But I didn’t miss the subtle way his shoulders tensed, the nearly imperceptible pause in his movements. He wasn’t used to being watched this closely.

I waited, settling in across from him like I belonged there, watching the way the late afternoon light cut across the sharp angles of his face. Slowly, he lifted his face, first to the cup in front of him, then to me, suspicion simmering behind those dark brown eyes.

“I never told you my order,” he said, his voice measured, cautious.

I grinned, bracing my elbow on the table like I had all the time in the world. “You did,” I said. “The first night. With Elliott. I read you pretty well based on your quick order.”

Noah’s expression tightened, his lips pressing into a thin, unimpressed line. His eyes roamed between me and the cup, as if debating whether engaging in this conversation was worth his energy. I had the distinct impression that he found me exhausting.

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice just enough to make it sound like a secret. “Black. No sugar, no milk. Straight-up workaholic energy.” I smiled. “Classic choice.”

He blinked, and for the briefest second, I thought he might roll his eyes. Instead, a wary look crossed his face, like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or impressed.

Then, to my absolute delight, he curled his long fingers around the cup and lifted it, taking a slow, careful sip.

No protest. No scoff. No pointed demand of why are you paying attention to my coffee preferences?

Just silent, begrudging acceptance.

Progress. I turned and walked away to join my regulars at the bar.

Sam Ortiz and Callie Nguyen had barely been sitting at the bar for ten minutes, their usual happy hour drinks in hand, before they clocked the interaction unfolding at my table.

Callie, stylish as ever, all perfect lines and effortless androgyny, had a knack for clocking the social temperature of a room faster than anyone.

They ran Havenwood’s most popular salon Chroma, knew everyone’s business (but somehow made you grateful for it), and had this way of making sure no one ever felt left out.

I met them here at the Bistro bar during my first week in town while I was still in training, and Callie, Havenwood’s self-proclaimed favorite non-binary Asian, didn’t waste time pulling me into the friend group.

And then there was Sam, solid, steady Sam.

An English teacher at Havenwood High, best friends with Elliott Brooks, and the kind of guy everyone trusted without thinking twice.

He didn’t date much anymore, not after a string of bad luck that left him content to sit back, sip his drink, and shake his head at the rest of us.

This was their weekly tradition, clocking out from their respective jobs and sinking into the intoxicating call of cheap bar specials and good gossip.

The Rivermere Bistro wasn’t the most economical place to drink, but the happy hour specials made it worth their while, and the front-row seat to my antics? Apparently priceless.

Tonight’s entertainment? Me.

Again.

Callie perched on their usual barstool, one leg tucked beneath them, cocktail in hand, watching me like a critic about to deliver a scathing review. They took a sip, eyes narrowing as they clearly pieced together what I was about to do. “Oh no,” they said. “He’s doing the thing.”

Sam, trying (and failing) to focus on his book, let out a sigh without looking up. “Flirty, persistent, mildly insufferable?”

Callie set their glass down with a clink. “Full throttle.”

I smirked, leaning an elbow on the bar between them. “You two have a lot of opinions for people who are just supposed to be enjoying happy hour.”

Finally, Sam pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced toward the booth, following my line of sight. His eyes bounced between me and Noah; the way Noah tensed, the way I clearly enjoyed it a little too much.

“You do remember who you’re aiming that charm at, right?” Sam said, half amused, half resigned.

“I mean… I know of him,” I admitted, lowering my voice a little. “Noah Patel. He is friends with Elliott. But I’ve never actually gotten to know him. He’s kind of… elusive.”

Callie declared, “That’s because he doesn’t come out. Not unless Elliott drags him. The man is practically a myth around here. Grumpy as hell, married to his job, allergic to socializing. And now here comes Evan Mitchell, thinking he’s gonna crack that particular code.”

“He’s very cute,” I said, grinning despite myself.

With the patience of a tired teacher watching his students make poor life choices, Sam sighed again. His expression was flat as he looked at Callie and said, “We should stop him.”

Neither of them moved.

Instead, they both leaned in just a little in perfect unison, the way you do when you don’t want to miss the next twist in the drama.

I shook my head, laughing under my breath. “That’s what I thought.”

And with that, I pushed off from the bar and headed to Noah’s booth, feeling their eyes on me the whole way.

I stretched out in the booth, settling in, one arm draped across the back of the seat. The steam curled lazily from the rim of his mug, but my attention was elsewhere. I was far more interested in watching Noah slowly, steadily unravel.

I could tell he was aware of me. He hovered over the keyboard, stiff and hesitant, like he was debating whether to attempt to keep working or shut the laptop altogether. Or, possibly, chuck it at my face.

He took another sip of coffee, while I rested my chin on my palm as I watched him.

Finally, after what I could only assume was a full mental dissertation on whether or not I was worth acknowledging, he let out a long, suffering sigh and fixed me with a flat, exhausted stare.

“Are waiters allowed to sit with customers?”

His voice was dry, low, edged with vexation.

I shrugged, completely unbothered. “Probably not,” I admitted, as if I had given this any real thought. “But I like to think of myself as more of a customer experience specialist.”