Page 7 of Matthias’s Protective Embrace (Cardinal Falls #3)

Chapter Four

FRANK

It’s a nice feeling to pull up to the job site with my shit together for once.

This may be the one and only time it happens, so I need to revel in the accomplishment for a moment.

That magic to-do list worked. Mostly. At the very least, I left the house this morning with my bag full of everything I need for the day.

Except, of course, a water bottle. My sexy hunk provides that. Hopefully.

I swear I’m not getting cocky.

Or, maybe I am. As soon as I’m out of the car, I spot Matthias barreling toward me. That’s a fantasy I could get used to seeing play out. The brawny guy storming out of the house, pressing me up against my car, and having his way with me. Is it hot outside today?

Except he’s carrying a mug of coffee in his hands. Not quite the romance novel scene I’m picturing. But I’m not one to turn down caffeine. Even if it’s black and bitter.

As soon as he’s close enough to hear me, I start thanking him profusely.

I want to make up for how reluctant I was when he gave me lunch.

My caution over anything that could cause an allergic reaction is often misinterpreted as rude and unappreciative.

I make grabby hands toward the silver mug. “Coffee.”

“Here you go, Firecracker.” He holds it out, and I reach for it before my brain catches up.

“Firecracker?” I’m not sure what to think of the nickname. Being a redhead, I’ve been called a lot of things over the years. Carrot top, red, Little Orphan Annie, clown. No one’s ever called me firecracker before. Or used a tone that makes it sound more like a term of endearment rather than a jab.

“Um, because of your red hair and spunky attitude.” He pushes the mug toward me and shrugs. I swear the guy blushes a little. Apparently, I do have an effect on him.

“Spunky?” Who even uses words like that?

“Just take it.” He thrusts the mug toward me again.

I shake my head but snatch the coffee from his hands.

If he keeps treating me like this, Matthias can call me whatever he wants.

The first sip shocks my system. “This is actually good.” I take a few gulps and try not to sputter when it turns out to be much hotter than I anticipated.

Even with a burned tongue, I can tell this is doctored with my favorite dairy-free creamer.

Thank God, because I forgot to ask what was in it before I started gulping it down.

“Were you going to drink it even if it wasn’t?” he asks.

“Today? Yes. I’ll take caffeine in any form it’s provided.”

“Well, I thought this would be better. And”—he holds up a hand—“it’s an oat milk creamer. That should mean it’s okay for you, right? I checked the label, but I can get the bottle if you want to look for yourself.”

The fact that he remembered sends my stomach swooping.

How he knew I prefer my coffee to, well, not taste like coffee, is beyond me.

“Thanks. I trust you.” Maybe more than he trusts himself.

He stares at me intently, like I might drop dead any second.

He doesn’t know how much that means to me that he found an option that works rather than giving up the second my condition made it difficult.

Being allergic to animal products is not easy.

Technically, only mammal products, but it’s easier to tell people it’s all animals.

That way there’s no confusion. Most people forget that it includes dairy and other byproducts.

“Are you sure? It might be safer if you check the bottle.” He turns toward the house, and I put a hand on his shoulder. We both stare at it for a minute before I yank it back. Yep, definitely don’t need to be touching.

“Nah, I recognize the flavor. It’s a bit unique, so I can pick it out.” Salted caramel vanilla swirl. It ensures that coffee tastes nothing like coffee. Perfect.

“Good. Then you can get your sugar and caffeine in at the same time.”

“Efficiency is my middle name.” Not in my life in general, but in a few things. Thanks to a combination of Matthias and to-do lists, nothing can stop me.

I’m cashing in on the to-do list magic. After using one for the last week, I’ve managed to accomplish twice as much and show up with all my stuff at the worksite every day. Nothing can stop me now.

And, if the added benefit is that I’ve gained a sexy barista who brings me a thermos full of coffee every morning? Well, that’s a bonus feature. One I’m not willing to share with my classmates.

I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and start on my list for tonight/tomorrow morning.

Finish class

Get study group assignment

Drive home

Study

Dinner (optional)

Sleep.

Not necessarily in that order. Plus, I’m still avoiding my parents, which means I’ll wind up studying at the diner again until it’s safe to sneak into the house.

It’s a sad list, but it should get me through the next ten hours.

And then, I get to enjoy the push toward the weekend.

If I can get a full eight hours of sleep on Friday night, I’ll be golden.

It’s a big luxury, but I need it. I can feel my body starting to shut down from a lack of sleep.

The one advantage of hanging out at the diner is that I can cross off studying and dinner at the same time.

The downside is that my financial situation doesn’t allow me to order anything that would constitute a real meal.

Coffee and french fries it is. The Dinner of Mediocre Students.

Thankfully, Matthias continues to put a lunch bag next to my water bottle.

We both seem to be ignoring that fact. The coffee exchanges that have become a regular thing over the past week are short, but at least they’re face-to-face.

The rest of it magically appears each day, like there’s some sort of gnome living back there who’s increasingly concerned about my well-being.

I need to stay awake until I can get home.

Something that’s becoming increasingly difficult with my heavy eyes.

I swear, someone attached weights to my eyelashes.

If my history professor catches me, I’ll be dead.

I’ve seen how she shames people who aren’t paying attention in class.

Falling asleep is a crime worse than surfing social media.

“Frank?”

“Yeah.” Shit, Carrie looks pissed. Again. That might be the only way she feels around me.

“Sorry, a bit zoned out today.”

As much as the group might not appreciate my situation, I need them.

Without their help and insight, I have no idea how I would pass.

This study group is made up of all the best students.

If I’m going to learn how to match their academic abilities, I see no better way than being up close and part of the process.

“Okay, well, I’m checking to make sure you’ll have your work done by our study session.”

“Yes, no problem. See you on Sunday.” I grit the words out, trying to figure out when I’ll be able to finish off the work. I’ll have time to prep on Saturday and get all my notes ready to share with everyone.

She purses her lips. “Saturday.”

“Saturday?” I know I’m tired, but not so much that I’ve forgotten my schedule.

“I texted you. We changed it because Noah has a soccer game.”

“I didn’t know we had a soccer team.” Honestly, we could have a football team and marching band, and I wouldn’t notice unless they crashed one of my classes. Even then, it’s possible I’d miss the whole thing.

“We don’t. It’s a local rec league.” Really? The whole schedule changes for a hobby? “You could come. A bunch of us are going to go watch the game to support him.”

“I’ll think about it.” Right after I figure out how to get all this work done by Saturday. And when I’m going to sleep. “What time?”

“Three. In our usual spot at the back of the library.” That gives me far less time to put my notes together. I’ll need to put in a bunch of hours after work on Friday and Saturday morning to get my part of the group work done. It’ll be tight. And it completely derails my plans for sleep.

“Okay. See you then.” I don’t wait for any of them, making a beeline for my car.

Squeezy sputters a few times, threatening to give out on me before she starts.

“Good girl,” I say, patting the wheel a few times.

Ten years isn’t that old for a car, but she’s had a tough life.

Luckily, she doesn’t give me any issues on the way to the diner.

I pray I’ll be able to say the same when I leave.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Esther calls when I walk in.

I absolutely hate that I’m a regular here.

If I’m going to be a regular somewhere, I’d much prefer it to be a bar or a club.

Being a regular at a diner, especially this late at night, is sad.

And lonely. The place is nearly empty, minus a few people sitting at the booths.

I pick up my regular spot at the counter, taking up as little space as possible.

Sure, I order a couple of things, but I don’t want to take away from customers who spend more money.

“Coffee?” Esther holds two pots in her hands, one with an orange handle and the other with a brown one.

“Yeah, regular.” I flip the mug at my spot over and push it toward her. “And french fries, when you get a chance.”

While she pours the coffee, I pull out my textbook.

The last thing I want right now is to do more reading.

My bleary eyes barely make out the words on the page.

I force myself into study mode, pulling out a notebook, pen, and highlighters.

I can do this. I repeat the mantra over and over in my head, hoping it’ll eventually be true .

I outline the first of my prescribed chapters, making notes of anything that doesn’t make sense right now.

The list is quite long, even after three cups of coffee.

The fries are doing a better job of perking me up.

They’re straight out of the fryer, hot, salty, and delicious.

I can’t always order them when I’m out, since many places share fryers across a variety of food.

Realistically, it’s probably okay, but over the years, I’ve learned that probably isn’t good enough.

I asked the first time I came in, and they assured me that they have a separate one for fries, in part because they make so many of them.

There’s probably a statement there about the sad state of the world, but I don’t care. Fries are the cure for so many things, and I’m happy to not have to give them up.

I make it two hours and four cups of coffee before I can’t manage another minute. Books and notebooks stuffed away, I wave down the server to get my bill.

“You gonna be okay to drive, hon?” Esther asks as I tap my card against the portable reader.

How embarrassing is it to be asked that at a diner? “I’m good. I only live a few blocks away.” I remember when such concerns were limited to clubs and bars.

In the car, I turn up the radio and roll down the windows, hoping the cool night air will help keep me awake until I get home. The drive is thankfully fast, only two and a half songs long, before I pull up to the curb outside the dark house.

I stare at it for a moment, thankful that everyone’s gone to bed. It might physically hurt to stay up, but at least now I can crawl into my sheets and pass out for a few hours before I get up to go to work without any argument.

I sneak into the house, reenacting the worst of my teenage years.

Getting ready for bed seems like way too much work, so I yank off my jeans and crawl into bed, wearing the rest of my clothes.

Before I let my eyes close, I double-check that the alarm on my phone is set for five-thirty, plugged in, and charging.

Everything else can wait until tomorrow.