Page 2 of In Death’s Hands (The Threads of Fate #1)

“Liv, your mysterious man is back!” Joana pops her head into the break room to squeal.

Despite me rolling my eyes hard , my insides tighten in excitement. I haven’t seen him in weeks.

I close my smutty book slowly and pack up my lunch meticulously. If you can call a bag of crisps and a chocolate bar lunch. I may be trying to look unaffected, but the smirk she sends my way before heading back out tells me I’m not fooling her.

What? I’m only going back to work fifteen minutes before my break ends. Plenty of people do that voluntarily. Right?

Eh, maybe not.

I’m usually not one to ogle the clients traipsing in for their caffeine fix in our bright corner of London, but this man is impossible to ignore.

He started coming in about six months ago.

He always orders a cup of plain coffee (who does that?) and sits in the corner of the coffee shop for at least an hour each day without drinking it, staring intensely at everyone.

He has that tall, dark and handsome look about him that makes everything he does seem deliberate and important.

Honestly, he looks like a character straight out of a book. Maybe that’s why I’m crushing hard.

Out of the numerous baristas working here, I usually manage to be the one serving him. His deep, quiet voice always spreads delicious goose bumps across my skin. And I’m pretty sure I’m being self-centred, but amongst all the people he observes, his eyes seem to fall on me more often than not.

But then he stopped coming, and it’s embarrassing how much I’ve missed his daily visits. I exit the break room in a rush, ignoring the loud noise of something crashing on the floor with deadly force as I close the door. I really don’t have time for this shit right now.

I take a deep breath, run my hands over my deep purple barista apron and head back behind the counter.

I love this coffee shop. Six years ago, when I moved back to London, I had no idea what to do with myself.

I spent the first few days visiting everything, as any tourist would.

After all, I had never been an adult in this city before.

The “home” I grew up in once organised a day trip, but we were mostly stuck in museums all day.

And as lovely as they were, they could not compare to the real sights of the massive capital.

I stumbled upon The Muddied Waters almost by accident.

I could even say fate, if I believed in such a thing.

I went to cross London Bridge, but I chose the worst time of day to do so: rush hour.

It seemed like the entire population of the town was running about, pushing me around to get to work while drinking their morning caffeine fix, a lot of which I ended up wearing by the time I reached the end of said bridge.

That whole ordeal made me want coffee in me, and when I turned around, trying to find my bearings, I saw this small place that looked like a rainbow had puked on it. It was made for me.

But my life isn’t a movie. I didn’t enter bright-eyed and full of hope, and they didn’t give me a job because someone had just quit and they were desperate for help.

No. It took practically a month of me befriending the busy staff and a lot of begging for them to vouch for me and send my ridiculously short CV to the new owner.

Six years later, I’m now the employee with the most seniority.

Not the oldest, mind you. Isaiah, a fifty-five-year-old teddy bear of a man, started working with us a few months ago, after his husband passed away.

It’s strange to be his superior, but he takes it in stride.

He only works here part-time to stay busy, anyway, not because he needs it.

He used to be some kind of fancy lawyer, apparently, so money doesn’t seem to be an issue for him.

Nor is it for me, but I don’t talk about it.

Isaiah is now looking at me with a twinkle in his eyes as he’s purposefully taking three times longer than usual to make a simple large white mocha.

The playful man didn’t have any issues fitting in with our young crew.

It’s only the three of us now during the busy afternoon shift, but there are six other people on staff, all of whom are students with big dreams. But right now, I’m not so focused on my lack of personal dreams, but rather on the handsome man waiting to order his coffee while Joana is conveniently wiping an already clean table at the front of the shop.

Do they think themselves clever? I roll my eyes and step up behind the register to take his order and finally allow myself to truly look at him.

I’ve been careful every time he’s come in not to ogle him too much.

I admit I haven’t been that successful, because as I once again take in his tall frame, broad shoulders stretching the dark grey sweater that probably cost more than my rent, something relaxes inside me.

Weird. I know I missed seeing him here, but that’s kind of a big reaction for a stranger. I cast it out of my mind and focus on him. He must think my team and I are complete lunatics by now.

My heartbeat accelerates when my gaze settles on his face. Square jaw, kissable mouth, proud nose, strikingly dark eyes. And short, messy dark hair. Yup. He looks like a god.

I realise I’ve been staring too long without speaking when he clears his throat, the sound luring my eyes back to his lips, currently quirking on one side.

Shit.

I blame him. Had he continued to show up every day like he used to, I would surely be desensitised to his good looks. But now, it’s all hitting me like the first time I laid eyes on him. I was so stunned I choked on my mocha until it came out of my nose.

Giving myself a mental slap, I finally open my mouth to greet this completely normal, random customer. Except that instead of saying hello and asking what he wants, I say, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

Double shit. Way to be a creeper, Liv.

His lips now extend into a full smile that turns my breath shallow. “I had some things to take care of.”

“Oh.”

We stare at each other, and I’m growing more and more nervous. Why is neither one of us saying anything? Ah. Maybe because I’m a freaking barista who should be asking him what he wants to drink!

In the background, I hear a customer clearing her throat pointedly, forcing sanity back into me. “What can I get you?” My voice does a weird squeaky thing that I refuse to acknowledge.

“Coffee. Black. Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Huh? What sort of question is that? Of course he’s sure, Liv. That’s what he always gets! Sigh.

He cocks his head in response, and I’m preparing for a mortifying moment, but he only says, “What would you have?”

“Uhm. What?”

“You seem to disapprove of my choice, but I’m not very familiar with the other beverages you offer here. So, what would you choose instead?”

“Beverages…” He sounds so fancy my heart does a flip in my chest and I wonder for a second how someone in our day and age can talk like that.

And doesn’t know the kinds of drinks one can order at a coffee shop.

Sure, we have specials with strange names like the Unicorn Swirl, courtesy of yours truly—a double shot with caramel syrup and bright pink whipped cream with sprinkles on top—but the rest of the menu is normal enough.

I quickly forget my train of thought, however, as his curious gaze makes me stupid. “Mocha!” I nearly shout, finally remembering to answer him. Jesus. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’d take a mocha. It’s got chocolate and coffee, so it’s basically heaven in a cup.”

“Heaven, huh?” He seems amused. “Then I’d like a taste of it.”

I nod, keeping my lips closed to try to limit the number of nutsy things that can come out of it before I’m through with this exchange.

I busy myself taking his money and preparing the drink.

My colleagues mercifully take over the register and tend to the numerous other clients that were getting antsy from such a long wait.

Sadly, my mouth has a mind of its own today, and before I hand him his cup, I ask, “What’s your name?”

“Why?” He seems taken aback by the question, making me realise I have absolutely no fucking reason to ask for it. We’re not Starbucks!

“New company policy. We ask for the names of regular clients to greet them personally.”

Well… that’s not too bad, is it? I’ve almost convinced myself that my lie is plausible when I hear Joana’s snort behind me. Dammit.

I’m not sure he gets any of it, though, as he seems lost in thought, his eyes pondering something.

“Nathan?” he tells me, the inflection of his voice making it sound almost like a question.

He nods and confirms, “I’m Nathan,” in a more decisive tone.

“Thank you for the drink, Liv.” The way he says my name, like he’s tasting it for the first time, makes my cheeks warm. He starts walking away.

“Wait, how do you know my name?”

He turns to look pointedly at my chest, and I feel myself getting outraged when I remember the company tag with my name on it. It’s got “Olivia” written on it, but I scribbled out the first and last two letters years ago with a sharpie.

“Oh.”

He smirks and heads out of the shop. I try not to be disappointed that he’s not staying to drink his cup inside but fail miserably. Thankfully, an onslaught of new clients keeps my mind busy enough that I only replay our conversation a dozen times or so.

A few hours later, I throw my apron into my locker in the back room, grabbing my bag and slamming the door while putting my coat on.

I’m late.

I was busy chatting with Lewis, a homeless man that comes in from time to time for a hot drink and some company.

It took me years to convince him, and even now, he doesn’t like to linger long for fear of bothering us.

So, when he came in, I couldn’t find it in me to tell him my stern guitar teacher will kill me if I’m late.

Knowing that he accepted a piece of cake along with an extra-large hot chocolate will make Miss Anderson’s sermons worth it, though.

I put my headphones on my ears and practically run out of the shop, waving at my colleagues on the way out.

Miss Anderson used to be a guitar teacher at the Royal Academy of Music. She’s now retired but probably missed terrorising students, so she decided to give private lessons.

I kinda suck at playing the guitar, to be honest, but I love it. The fact that after two years I still struggle with the most basic partitions only bothers my perfectionist of a teacher. She takes it as her own failure and refuses to give up.

I hurry down the street, bumping into tourists more focused on the sights than on the people around them. It feels both like yesterday and forever ago since I was one of them.

Thankfully, I don’t have to walk for long before I see the entrance to the Tube.

I just need to cross the road, the traffic currently at a standstill due to people exiting a red double-decker bus.

As I make to step ahead of the bus and cross, a bike comes out of nowhere and nearly topples me to the ground.

I get stuck in place, brain working out the curses the man was uttering loudly as he almost killed me.

I don’t have time for this shit. I take another step forward, but I must have taken too long.

I’ve lost my window. The bus is pulling out behind me and I find myself in the middle of moving cars.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I take a retreating step, deciding that I’d rather be late than take my chances with Death.

Only I don’t seem to get a choice. As I try to retreat to the pavement, the sound of a honk registers a second before I see a car rushing towards me.

Everything slows down. The honk is still loud in my ears, as is the screech of the tires braking on the tarmac.

I try to move, but I know it’s too late.

The scene goes black as I close my eyes, clearly too much of a coward to face this.

And through all of this, I don’t yell. No, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Shit. Not again !”