Page 10

Chapter eight

Coffee

But at the same time, she knew that the cost of a cup of coffee wasn’t going to make a damn bit of difference against that flood of expenses, in the end.

She’d been struggling long enough to know that if she didn’t take a small pleasure here and there, she would break.

And she couldn’t afford to break. Her mother couldn’t afford for her to break.

And she wanted to see Rai again. Guilt be damned .

“Good morning,” came his voice from in front of her, and she stumbled.

Where had he come from? It was like he’d literally manifested out of thin air at her thoughts, crisp and pressed and extremely, well, dry .

That was a first. Meanwhile, she was sweating like a linebacker just from walking the four blocks from her house.

“I see you found the ants,” she said, feeling a smile bust out on her face. Even though her banking app was still open with its familiar bad news.

“So I did. It was not difficult.” Rai patted the mural and gave her a smug grin that could have been insufferable but instead felt like an inside joke.

“Tragically, I’m out of biscuits. But it’s a clever trick.

” She hesitated for a moment, then said fuck it and reached up and patted him on the head.

He was the one who had escalated them from polite strangers to touching buddies by kissing her knuckles and licking juice off her fingers.

Sow the seeds of no boundaries, reap the whirlwind of awkward impulses.

He seemed pleased, crinkling his gray eyes down at her. Or were they blue? They shone in the sunlight almost like they had lightbulbs inside.

Though now that she was close, Rai looked a little too dry.

His full lips were parched and a bit deflated—she couldn’t help but notice, given how much she’d been staring at them the night before—and his tan skin was blotchy and pale, almost lavender in the sun.

Perhaps that was the problem; she hadn’t seen him in full morning light before.

His beauty might simply be better suited to the diffuse lighting of a rainy day.

Still, she should check. The days when it was acceptable to go out and about with a “cold” had ended three years back, no matter how flattering it might be to be considered an essential engagement.

And isolating from her mom after an exposure might be physically possible but would otherwise be disastrous. “You’re not sick, are you?”

“I am well,” he said, though the grin that followed it seemed forced. He wasn’t sneezing or sniffling, at least. Just glaring at the sun as if it were his mortal enemy.

Realization dawned. “I bet it doesn’t get this hot in Brazil.”

He shrugged weakly. “It is…remarkably warm. Brazil is also warm, but not so…” He mimed an explosion with his hands.

“And it’s just getting started.” She took his arm and steered him toward the front of the coffee shop. “First rule of July in Tucson is to not stand outside in July in Tucson. But hey, at least it’s a dry heat.”

He did not laugh. Not surprising; he must have heard that one a good fifty times before he’d even left the airport. “But It’s a Dry Heat” T-shirts probably accounted for six-point-two percent of Southern Arizona’s tourism economy .

The cool blast of air conditioning when she opened the door turned her sweat to ice, but in a good way; she gave Rai a quick smile and led him inside.

His sigh of relief was loud and long enough that the twenty-something tapping away on his laptop at a table by the front window gave him a fierce stop-interrupting-my-muse glare.

Poppy ignored him, inhaling the atmosphere of her favorite refuge.

Café Legend had, according to their website, been around for almost thirty years, serving as a gateway to Tucson’s historic business district.

Poppy had discovered it shortly after her arrival in town and had instantly fallen in love.

It wasn’t glossy, or trendy; in fact, she would bet that no professional interior designer had ever so much as offered advice on the decor—or if they had, they’d been hogtied and tossed on the next streetcar to find a more welcoming client.

The brick walls were painted alternately orange and yellow, according to no discernable rhyme or reason, and the ceiling was high and plain, with air handling ducts exposed and mismatched lights and fans dangling randomly.

The tables and booths were dark, aged wood, and toward the back of the shop, they gave way to a few comfy old couches and a children’s play area lined with chalkboards and littered with games.

The plate glass windows at the front were plastered with posters for local performances, and the ledge that ran under the windows was covered with stacks of event flyers and business cards.

There was a display case stuffed with pastries and a glass-fronted cooler displaying their canned and bottled offerings, and the wall behind the counter was lined with various state-of-the-art coffee and espresso machines below a few simple shelves bearing vintage coffee grinders.

It looked like it had all been put together in a weekend by somebody’s grandpa using the contents of their attic and perhaps a trip to Goodwill, and the end result was an unpretentious haven that invited guests to make themselves at home.

Which they did, often staying for hours doing homework, sketching, writing, or simply thinking.

She would not be surprised to learn that dozens of novels had been written there, fueled by dirty chai and fresh blueberry limeade.

The best part, though, was the art. Every wall that had more than a few inches of available area held a collection of art by one local artist or another, and all of it was for sale.

It wasn’t the kind of gallery Poppy’s father had sold art in—those were cool and elegant, with guest books and track lighting and wine and cheese receptions.

The art displayed at Café Legend was eclectic, and sometimes a little weird, and always the sort of thing “respectable” galleries turned up their noses at.

And three of the drawings, hanging over the booth at the very end, were Poppy’s.

She very deliberately did not look at them as she approached the register, except to note that all three were still there.

Not a surprise, but still a twinge of disappointment knifed through her belly.

She shoved it down and smiled at Rai, who was looking around with sparkling, curious eyes. “Do you need to look at a menu?”

He frowned at the plastic-coated card she’d proffered. “You said they sell coffee.”

“Ah, a simple man.” She hesitated. They hadn’t discussed whether one of them was paying for both.

Shouldn’t she be the one paying? She’d been the one to invite him, after all, and she didn’t feel comfortable just expecting the other way around.

Besides the fact that she still wasn’t sure she could call this a date, it also handed the reins for whatever they had going over to him before they’d even started.

Relinquishing control made her twitchy; that way lay trauma and bad life choices.

But also, some guys were funny about paying, even if they were otherwise easygoing—be it pride, insecurity, or societal toxic masculinity—and she didn’t want to hurt Rai’s feelings.

Plus, she’d never actually asked anyone out on a date before to test the who-pays waters, and maybe they did things differently in Brazil. “You okay with going Dutch?”

He nodded, looking overwhelmed but bedazzled.

“Perfect.”

Heather, the blue-haired assistant manager who handled the gallery part of the shop, was on the register today.

Poppy ordered a drip coffee—the cheapest thing on the menu—and a glass of water, though she couldn’t help but cast a longing look at the pastry case.

She’d promised herself a scone as a reward for making her first art sale.

Someday, she told herself as she ran her card and added on a hefty tip, then stepped aside so Rai could order.

He’d been staring at the espresso machine like it was a puzzle he needed to solve, but he caught Poppy’s look and turned his brilliant smile on Heather. “I would like the same as Poppy,” he said firmly, then held out his hand, which had a single large coin in the center.

“What is that?” Heather leaned closer.

“I am purchasing coffee and water.” Rai lifted his head and looked down his nose at Heather, as if daring her to argue.

Poppy leaned over to look at the coin. It was shiny and golden, with what looked like a mermaid stamped on one side.

“Is that Brazilian money?” She couldn’t remember what their currency was, if she’d ever known it.

And she couldn’t read the writing, for some reason.

It reminded her of the dwarven runes on the maps in Lord of the Rings , but more flowy and intricate .

Rai looked at her and drew the coin back, closing it in his fist. “Yes. I wish to pay. Is it not sufficient?” He fumbled at his waist.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Heather said in the even voice of someone who’d dealt with this sort of landmine before. “We can’t accept foreign coins. But you should be able to use your card.” She tapped the card reader helpfully. “The bank will take care of the exchange rate.”

Rai’s jaw worked for a moment, and he eyed the touchscreen balefully. “I have no card,” he said at last.

“My treat,” Poppy said quickly, then when Rai looked likely to argue, she set her hand over his. “You can pay me back later, after you get to a bank.”