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Chapter Three

Y ou remember what I told you about the Inciting Incident? Well, this is where it matters.

Because that alarm clock?

It sucks.

Stu was right, and I can't tell when the light gets bright. I am stupid-lucky my brain wakes up on its own, shouting something is wrong ! It takes me thirty solid seconds of staring at the display to figure out what 'something wrong' is.

I am very late.

I am also hungover as hell.

I run the four blocks to Beanevolence, throbbing head down, gulping on air to keep from puking, and hoping I don't bowl someone over.

I'm envisioning a line of pissed off suits waiting by the door, tapping expensive shoes on the filthy pavement.

Or Hadi writing out a pink slip to fire me.

She'd do it, too, even if she had to go buy the pink paper specifically for the dramatic gesture.

Rounding the corner, I'm both relieved and horrified to see there's only one person waiting. Shit. I've totally screwed the morning rush. That's hundreds of bucks Hadi is out.

Hard fail.

Then my stomach swoops, because it’s him. The guy I’d thought, for a hopeful split-second, had been at the bar last night.

Now is not the time to be kicking yourself.

Now is the time to open the goddamn door, and make some coffee, and steal some of the weapons-grade painkillers Hadi keeps in her desk.

Hangover headaches are the worst. The fact that I did it to myself makes it even worse-er.

Worser? Whatever, I hurt too much right now to care whether that's a real word or not.

Worser-er than even that is that I look like something that crawled out from under my bed, and he looks unfairly delicious.

He’s in his usual uniform: a button-down, and a matched tailored-within-an-inch-of-its-life waistcoat and dress pants. This time it’s the hunter green with the yellow oversized check and matching shirt. Flattering, but not my fave of his looks.

The newspaper under his arm is in French today.

He looks slightly desperate for his caffe tobio.

That’s a short pull of espresso doppio'd into drip-coffee in equal amounts.

Hard core. If I didn't know what he was, I'd say it was a macho drink ordered to intimidate, like dudes who eat hot sauce that's too spicy to look cool.

But who knows what caffeine does to people like him?

Maybe coffee alone isn't enough to give him his morning perk. Maybe he just likes the taste.

"Sorry," I say, as I swoop in.

The split-tongue steps back, gesturing to the door. This close to him, I can tell he's got that weird aftershave on. It's smoky-amber, with musky deep undertones of fermenting grapes that one field trip too many to peninsula wineries has tattooed on my brain.

"You're late—" he starts, and I shouldn't call him a split-tongue, even in my own head. It's not polite; it's verging on a slur, really. Being hungover is no excuse for meanness. Especially since he doesn't actually lisp.

What he does do is talk in a skin-tinglingly precise accent that’s British in the vowels and hard Canadian on the consonants.

It’s arresting, and lyrical. He even rolls his 'r's a little and, okay, I have wondered how you get a forked tongue to do that.

The point is, it's the kind of accent no one else has had in decades. Maybe centuries, I don't know.

I mean, I have no idea what the dude's name is, let alone his age. Kind of a rude thing to ask.

"I'm aware," I grunt.

"Allow me—" It takes me a second to realize he's trying to get at the door to, what, open it for me? Like some sort of romantic hero?

Oh, no.

No.

That's cute.

That will not do.

This close, I can feel his body heat , and my brain is seriously not online enough to separate last night's fantasies from reality, and arrggggh, it’s too early for this.

"I got it," I say, a bit stronger than is polite.

His eyes snap wide. This close, the sunflower yellow of them is flecked with sparks of warm amber. He blinks a few times, the gold-leaffreckles that dance across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose getting lost in a mortified flush.

Shit, I'm being an asshole.

"Sorry," I say again. "Can you just… let me actually unlock it?"

He stands there, all handsome and forlorn. "I thought you might be ill—"

I drag my under-caffeinated gaze from his mouth—this close I can see that the upper peak of his lips are so perfectly shaped they look like they've been tattooed there.

I don't think I've ever seen his elegant face composed into anything except a politely thoughtful expression of near-nothingness, sort of like if resting bitch face had a refined older brother. But now he looks hang-dog.

I want coffee.

I want him to back off.

(I want to kiss him.)

I'm so hungover.

He is so pretty in the morning light.

I'm being so uncooly feral.

What is wrong with me today ? I bet if I'd actually gotten laid last night I wouldn't be staring at him like he's the last donut.

"Alright, come in."

He heads for his usual front corner table.

He must know he looks good sitting there.

Possibly he likes this table because he likes his back to the wall, and an eye on all the exits.

Hadi painted the support columns of the old black building the same blazing bronze as her logo, and they do frame the view of the street nicely.

And the view of him, from the sidewalk. Or maybe he just likes the warmth from the windows—it could be a cold-blooded lizard thing.

But honestly, I really think he's doing it just to torment me.

'Cause when the sun hits the front of the building just right, it sparks off his spun-copper hair, lines his high cheekbones and beaky nose in gold, gilds his shining freckles, and lends a flush of warmth to his otherwise cream-pale skin.

(What? I’m still a writer at heart. I’ve already decided exactly how I'd describe him on paper. Don’t judge me.)

God, I'm thirsty.

I lie to myself and pretend I mean I need something to drink.

The fact that I can almost hear the syrupy anime love theme every time I look at him is the unfairest kind of bullshit imaginable.

I am a trashperson, lusting after him when the most we've ever spoken before today was the time he miraculously asked for a second caffe tobio (he'd had bruises under his eyes like thumbprints.

I'd wanted to ask him if he was okay, but he was back to his table so quick and—)

Maybe Gem is right and I do need to lay off the romance novels.

(Never.)

Thirsty. Focus on the coffee.

Right.

Maybe I need a glass of ice-water instead.

Maybe just a whole-ass cold shower.

I get all of the gear flicked on, checking water levels and pulling the wands out of the sanitizer, then grind the first pot for the perc.

As the espresso machine chugs its way to wakefulness, I peer into garbage cans and inspect tables.

The till is counted out neatly, with a post-it note reminding me to buy a roll of quarters stuck to the crisp purple stack of tens.

Obviously Min-soo closed last night, ‘cause she always kills it.

In the dark kitchen, I crank the industrial oven up as high as it will go to pre-warm, scoop dough from the huge bowl Min-soo left in the fridge last night onto trays, and climb the step-ladder to dump a burlap sack of fresh beans into the massive stainless steel bean roaster in pride of place in the corner of the kitchen.

In my back pocket, my phone starts playing a punk version of You're the Cream in My Coffee . Shit. That's my alarm to start the second batch of scones. Dammit. I don't have time to let the oven preheat properly. I shove the tray in.

Then it’s back out to the front, where he is sitting primly in his corner, eyes on his newspaper.

Yeah, I'm a basic bitch and prefer coffee that's more sugar and froth than bean juice, but there’s something so good about a fresh-brewed black coffee first thing in the morning.

That's art in its own right, my loves. I interrupt the drip machine to pour myself a mug, and take one selfish minute to revel in a perfect sip.

But what is usually a soft symphony of my mornings is instead a self-inflicted cacophony. The plink of coffee into the carafe, the hiss of the espresso machine, the hum and clunk of the bean-roster in action, all punctuated by the crisp rustle of his newspaper? Agony.

A year ago, I would use this quiet time after the morning rush to work on my thesis. Before that, it would have been an essay, or a lab, or something else I’d procrastinated. Now, I have nothing to work on. Nothing to do but this. Nowhere to go but here. No career, no demand, no drive, just…

Me.

And him.

And the stretching, hissing, clunking, dripping, painful silence.

"Ugh, get your ass in gear, you embarrassment," I mutter to myself.

"Beg pardon?" he asks, voice raised politely.

Shit.

"I said, uh, the espresso machine is warmed up. Caffe tobio?"

"Please." He crosses his legs. There's a flash of turquoise at his ankle. I only catch it for a second, but it looks like he's wearing socks with cartoon dragons on them. Huh, okay… that’s more playful than I expected him to be.

"Coming right up."

"I appreciate it. And you are well?" he asks, which is the longest string of words I've ever heard out of him.

"Yeah." I turn to the machine, tapping out a careful twenty-seven seconds with the toe of my chucks, timing as the espresso fills the demitasse. So I'm completely in my head, and totally not expecting it when his voice comes from somewhere much too close, just over my left shoulder.

"Oversleeping could be the sympto—"

"Gah!" I shout, and Christ no , the wand in my hand goes flying up, up, sprinkling boiling-hot grounds like freaking pixie dust.

He ducks and snaps the newspaper over his head as they rain down. The sharp clatter of the wand hitting the tile makes us both wince. In the aftermath we stare across the counter at one another, eyes wide, with what I assume are matching shocked expressions.

"Are you—" he starts again and I hold out a hand to stop him.

"I'm fine."

"I've never known you to—"

"Shit, you're chatty today," I say, and it’s accidentally catty. He flinches, stung. A glob of espresso grounds plops off his shoulder and splats on the tile floor. "Sorry, sorry! That came out wrong. I'm not… I'm not having a good morning."

"My apologies," he murmurs mournfully, and aw, no.

"I'll make you another one," I say quickly. "On the house. Just… sit, and I'll—"

"Perhaps I should go." He lowers his paper and flicks grounds off the toe of his shoe. Oh, shit, are they expensive? Am I going to have to pay for, I dunno, shoe dry cleaning?

"No, please. " That lurch in my stomach again, and it's only because a morning that has started terribly (and has only gotten worse) would really become awful if he wasn’t sitting in the sunlight, glimmering quietly. "Please stay."

It would be just wrong .

"If you are ill, you ought to be taking care of yourself first," he insists, instead of acknowledging my plea. "Don't you have a colleague who could cover—"

"I got a new alarm clock, I didn't wake up, it’s fine, it doesn’t matter."

"It does to me." He crunches the ruined paper in his hands, flexing and twisting. "In fact, I, er, perhaps it is time I confessed that… I smell something burning."

"You smell burning?" I swig another mouthful of coffee from the mug I'd left by the till, and take a deep breath to calm myself. Wait. "I smell it, too."

His gaze flicks to the door behind me, slit pupils dilating. "The kitchen."

"The scones!" I squawk and spin on the spot. I slip in spilled espresso, toppling sideways. Before I can hit the ground, he lunges across the countertop, catching my arm in a grip that's stronger than I think he realizes. It also prickles.

Trying to get my stupid feet under me, I catch the barest flash of red scale and black, long-tipped nails. Then his hand is back to a perfectly pale peach, fussily manicured, and human.

I shrug him off and push through the door. I shouldn't have gasped, that was a stupid thing to do when the air is heavy with smoke. But I do, and jerk to a stop, folding double, coughing. He runs into me. I nearly topple. That prickling grip pulls me upright again.

"What can I do to—" he starts, but the fire alarm cuts him off.

"I forgot to turn down the goddamn oven!"

"I'll get it." He reaches out with his free hand. It's covered in deep red scales, his fingertips ending in delicately curved claws.

Holy crap.

He's dexterous, able to work the knob, then swing down the oven door. Black smoke, oily with burning fats, cascades into our faces. I cover my mouth and nose with the edge of my Henley, eyes burning.

"Oven mitts!" I warn.

"Not necessary!" He's got the tray balanced in his claws. "Where should I—?"

And that's when the fire suppression system kicks in.

It lets out a sharp, high whistle that startles him so badly the claws of the hand holding my arm spasm. They go right through my shirt and into flesh.

I holler.

Five things happen at once.

First, he drops the tray of scones. It clatters off the tile, sending burnt pucks of dough into the air. One smacks into my leg, and two pelt him as we dance away.

Second, he yanks his claws out of my arm, blood on the tips, and freaking hell, it stings.

Third, white foam pours from the pipes that ring the kitchen ceiling, coating every surface in a bitter-tasting cloud. Including us.

Fourth, the guy makes a sort of gurgling belch noise, then a sharp bony click accompanied by a spark on his lips that looks exactly like the kind you get from a lighter.

Fifth, he spits fire.

Right into the corner. Where the giant custom bean roaster is. The drum is perforated, and the beans inside it immediately go up in flames. They're so hot they burn blue. The steel drum starts to goddamn melt.

" Coc y gath ," he gasps in horror, dithering on the spot.

"Holy shit," I say, clamping my hand down over the punctures in my arm.

"I'm terribly sorry!" he shouts over the sound of the alarm and the hiss of the foam deflating around us. "I didn't mean to—I was startled!"

The urgency of the situation suddenly hits home, fire crawling up the wall toward the ceiling, and I scream: "Put it out!"

"What do you want me to do? Suck it back up?" he shouts back, all his cool calm evaporating in the heat of the inferno. "I'm a dragon, not a fire extinguisher!"

Well.

Fuck this meet-cute straight to hell, then.