Page 8

Chapter Seven

I spend the next week sleeping, and reassuring the fam there is no need to cross the province just because I had a few stitches, I am a big boy.

My brother and sister both text back with the exact same emoji of a face with a long Pinocchio-is-lying nose (either they did it on purpose to annoy me, or they really do have that twin-mind-reading thing.) I eat leftovers, am diligent about my meds, send a thank you card to Auntie Pattie for the bottle of birthday Scotch, read romance, work my way through the massive To Be Read pile of novels I'd neglected during Uni, and convince myself that I'm being a dumbass about Dav.

Dragons are hella secretive. Websites are scanty. Wiki entries are lists of facts and dates, with little speculation. Medical texts are vetted before they're published. Nearly none of them have social media. So there’s zero evidence that Dav a) likes dudes, and b) likes me .

Why would he? He's hot. He's charming. He's got style, if a bit old-fashioned.

He's presumably rich, being a dragon. (If that's not a speciesist stereotype.) He’s probably in politics, they always are.

And he's got a big care-taking streak; he'd spent as much time mother-henning the other people in the waiting room as he had me, popping up to grab tissues for the mother with the baby, translating for someone who'd only spoken French, helping an elderly man to the washroom.

And he clearly has excellent taste in coffee.

No way he’s single.

And if he is, there’s no reason he’d be into me.

I'm all elbows and ears, skinny but not fit, and a plush bum that no kind of coin could bounce off.

I dress like I shop in bargain stores, because I do.

I have permanent late-night-studying bags under my eyes, scruff that I can never seem to shave all the way down, and no idea what to do with my mess of hair, so I do nothing at all.

I am a barista for christssake. I don't own anything but my student debt and an unused degree.

I'm not lazy, and I'm not a fuck up. But my bed and my Tbr pile call to me a lot more strongly than career ambition. Stu says it's normal to flail around after university, because the schedule and stress are gone. The dumpster fire has to burn down to ash before you can move the thing, right?

But it's been a year.

Gem had jumped right into her Master's of Library Science after undergrad. She was back with Mom and working with the local branch on diversity programming within weeks of graduating.

And Stuart had followed Dad's footsteps and joined the family construction company as soon as he'd gotten his Bachelors in History.

It was only meant to be a summer job, but Stu had liked the work.

Considering our hometown is full of Heritage Buildings that need constant attention, he'd married his love of old shit and making things, taken some online courses, and turned himself into Muskoka County's foremost expert on heritage restoration.

That's not 'flailing.'

And me? Nothing . No spark, no calling. No interview has been successful. No job posted in our alumni group has sung its siren song.

I like solving people's first-world problems with a smile, a coffee, and a chat. My own personal Coffee Shop AU. But I don’t want Beanevolence to be my forever home. This is Hadi's dream, not mine.

My dream had been the one I'd been co-planning with Rebekah.

And that was over.

So now what?

I hate to be told what to do, which Dr. Chen says comes from being the youngest sibling.

And, unfortunately at most jobs, is the standard.

Then there’s my issues with change, with being forced to make decisions that fucks me up so bad I can't make a choice at all. Dr. Chen would say that’s from my dad dying suddenly, and everything being yanked out from under me.

But those sound like reasonable and logical reasons, so of course my brain weasels do their best to convince me it can't possibly be true.

Clearly, I'm the issue, not my trauma.

Right?

Right.

I hate to be such a goddamned stereotype of a bisexual, shooting finger guns at my problems instead of solving them but, I’m on the fence about next steps. Going with the flow is easier.

Maybe it's also why I'm such a gullible shit when it comes to romance—because I keep keeping on with the keeping on when people hurt me, or take advantage of me, or cheat on me, or are just a plain bad match. Better than breaking up, right?

Although in this case, maybe it's a good habit to have.

Just keep on keeping on with Dav , I spend a week telling myself. He's just a customer. He's just a co-worker for the next few months, or for however long it takes for him to get bored of playing barista. Don't think about him in any other context, and it will be fine.

I mean, Dav hadn't even texted me again. He never asked how I was feeling, never added anything besides a thumbs up emoji when I'd told him he should show up at 8am on Monday.

There's no reason for someone like him to be into someone like me .

I'm on time, because I traded away that sunset alarm clock on a neighborhood app, and got a a real, metal jangly one in exchange. Maybe a dick move, as Gem gave me the clock as a gift, but better a dick than fired.

Hadi and I meet early so we can look over the work Dav paid for before the guy himself shows up.

The kitchen walls are in and painted, with a taped-in gap where the new oven is going to go.

Until then, Hadi's arranged to get pastries from a woman doing all-local, all-organic catering from her own kitchen.

The roaster is still on backorder, though.

"Don't worry, he won't last that long," Hadi says, having been the recipient of a panicked phone call last night about how I had somehow developed some stupid-ass crush on the man who had stabbed me with his hand. "And Min-soo said she'd come in if you need help. Not that you will in dead-time."

That's the thing about St. Catharines—when Brock University and Niagara College let out for the summer, the place is like a lockdown-era ghost town.

The only people who actually live here are retired artists, folks who work in customer service, or exhausted teenagers manning tourist attractions by Niagara Falls.

Without the drunk students to block the view, you realize that downtown is sad and pathetic, filled with wretched pensioners who have nothing better to do than ride the bus and smoke outside of malls, and rundown dive bars that are barely passable in the daylight, splintered and scuzzy.

The Business Association has been working hard to revitalize St. Paul Street, posh upscale bistros and fancy boardgame cafés clustering around the new performing arts and arena venues, but the rest of the street is slowly rotting in stale beer and decomposing glitter.

Hadi is at the forefront of the business owners trying to make the downtown appealing and useful year-round, but the tourists are slow to pick up on the idea that there's more to St. Catharines than a wine festival and a few sagging art galleries.

"Yeah, okay." I shove my right hand into my jean's pocket to keep my arm still and supported. I don't need the sling any more, but I try not to jostle it. I walk out to the front, past the counter, marveling at how everything sparkles. "Jeeze, this is impressive."

"Tudor's team does good work," Hadi agrees.

"Tudor?" I ask.

"Your dragon."

"He's not my dragon! Do you think they're related? I've never heard of other Tudors but the queen."

"Her Majesty is a cousin, on—" Dav says from the door, his rich accent rolling across the empty café.

I jump, wounds twinging. Oh shit, I think, and check my watch. 8am exactly. Of course the posh bastard is punctual. Did he hear Hadi call him 'my' dragon?

"On my mother's side," he finishes slowly, coming to a cautious stop, as if afraid he's scared us.

Okay, to be fair, we are both standing behind the counter with wide bunny-in-the-headlights looks on our faces, but it's only because we had just been discussing him.

Hadi hasn't reconnected the little electric bell over the front door yet and I'd never realized before, but Dav walks softly.

Like a predator , the scared-bunny part of my brain whispers, and yikes, that's an unpleasant thought. I'd never considered it before, but yeah, dragons do have very sharp teeth to go with the claws that can slip through flesh so easily.

My flesh , the bunny-part adds.

Shut up, weirdo, I tell the bunny.

"Why are you staring? Am I late?" Dav asks, glancing down at his wristwatch—heavy gold, like the buttons on today's waistcoat.

"Um, uh, no?" I splutter.

Shit. He's not as handsome as you remember, cut it out.

Ah, who am I fooling?

Because he is.

My stomach flops at the sight of his hair back in its usual Errol Flynn swoop, and his slacks seem especially well-tailored today. The sleeves of his navy-blue floral button-down were already rolled up to his elbows, ready to work, and get it together you absolute trashfire.

Hadi invites Dav behind the counter, offering him a nickel-tour. She hands him the binder of nifty laminated infographics that show how to layer the drinks.

"There's no caffe tobio," Dav says, flipping the book back to the front to search again.

"Colin learned that one special for you," Hadi says, the nosy wench. I thought she was supposed to be on my side. Whatever happened to bloody Rule One?

Dav makes that uncomfortable clicky noise. "I didn't mean to put you out."

"Not a problem," Hadi assures him, and slaps his shoulder chummily. He flinches so slightly that I don't think Hadi notices. He stares at her hand, befuddled, then down at his arm where she'd touched him. "I'mma leave you to it. Don't let Colin bully you."

Dav draws himself up like an affronted pigeon. "He would never—"

"He would," Hadi assures him, sliding out from behind the counter. She eels out the door with a "Lock up after me!", the conniving bitch.

I lock up after her. Dav’s still at the espresso machine, his lower lip rolled in and pinched between his teeth.

"This is, ah, a role reversal, wouldn't you say?" he asks softly, gesturing between us with one finger.

He is trying so hard .

And it is so cute .

Dammit.

Not ready to pack into the pokey kitchen just yet, instead I sit at his usual table. I perch one ankle on my knee, and mime opening a newspaper and peering over the top.

"Yes, I can see how that’d seem disconcerting," he berates himself.

"Why do it, then?" I ask, dropping my hands. "Don't you have somewhere better to be?"

Ha, I applaud myself, I remembered my mental note. Good job, self.

Instead of answering, Dav turns to put away the binder. The line of his back is tense, his shoulders practically up to his ears.

"Dav?"

He winces again, like my voice is a gunshot. From this angle, the freckles on his neck shine like golden ink on vellum.

"Hey." I slide behind the counter to touch his sleeve. He jerks as if I’d pinched him. I step back, palms out, nonthreatening. "Sorry."

"No, I—"

"I should have asked."

"It's me, I—" He makes that throaty click-spark noise and screws his eyes shut. A curl of smoke trickles out of the side of his mouth.

"Am I stressing you out?" I step further back. "Because I can back up—"

"No, please!" His hand shoots out, claw-free, to snatch my wrist. It's the arm with the still-healing punctures. I try not to make a face as it's pulled straight, but fail. He drops my wrist in horror. "Oh, Colin, I'm so sorry—"

"Okay, stop, shhh, stop!" I say, forcefully, but not unkindly.

Dav scrubs his hands over his face. Before he can push them through his hair I say, gently, "Don't."

He freezes and looks up at me.

"I like your hair. Don't muss it up."

He looks at me with an expression that twists so quickly, I can only parse the surprise and self-recrimination. There's just something so lost about him.

"Let's go roast some beans, eh?" I ask, and Dav nods miserably. "And from now on, I won't touch you if you can't see me coming, how about that?"

"And I'll mind your arm," he says softly.

"Thanks."

"How's it healing?"

"Just fine. Barely hurts any more." I shove my hand back into my pocket to support it all the same.

His mouth twists to one side. "You needn't lie to me, Colin."

"I'm not."

He looks at me like he can read the truth on my skin, but leads the way all the same.