Page 58 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

I nod, not trusting myself to respond. What the hell was that? I'm distracted, mentally cataloguing details I shouldn't care about—the coconut scent of her shampoo, the perfect curve of her lower lip, the way she bounces slightly on her toes as if containing excess energy.

Irrelevant. Distracting. Delete.

"Enjoy." She slides the coffee toward me with a wink that seems both professional and somehow private.

I take my coffee and retreat to my pre-selected table, positioning myself with clear sightlines to every entrance and most patrons. The chair scrapes against hardwood as I position it to face the room with my back to the wall. Perfect.

Opening my laptop creates the perfect cover for surveillance, but my attention keeps drifting back to the counter.

She's handling three customers at once now, multitasking with remarkable efficiency.

Her fingers fly across the register screen, then dance over the espresso machine controls without missing a beat in her conversation with the customers.

There's something about her movements—precise, calculated, yet fluid—that doesn't quite match her role.

I force my gaze back to the door. Target identification is the objective. Not analyzing baristas with intriguing movements and perceptive gazes.

But my eyes betray me, returning to her once more. I take a sip of the coffee. It's exceptional—notes of dark chocolate and citrus cutting through the bitterness. Not that I'll give her the satisfaction of knowing I think that.

My laptop screen displays financial reports—a convincing cover while I monitor the door. I've positioned it at the perfect angle to observe reflections from the front window. The sun creates a natural glare barrier, keeping my screen private while illuminating the shop's entrance.

Movement in my peripheral vision. The barista approaches, carrying another cup. My muscles tense instinctively. This isn't normal coffee shop protocol—counter service doesn't include table visits.

She sets the cup down beside my first, still half-full. Steam rises from the dark liquid.

"Made this one special." Her tone leaves no room for refusal. "When you finish that one. "

I don't look up. "I didn't order a second coffee."

"It's on the house."

"Not necessary." My voice drops colder, words clipped to discourage further interaction.

Instead of retreating, she stands her ground. "Has anyone ever told you that you sit with military posture?"

My fingers freeze over the keyboard. The observation is too accurate, too specific. I raise my eyes slowly, reassessing her threat level. She's watching me with that same analytical expression beneath her customer service smile.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The way you positioned your chair. Back to wall, clear view of both exits." She gestures with her chin. "Laptop angled so no one can see your screen. Even the way you set your cup exactly one hand's width from your right side."

My mind shifts into tactical evaluation mode. She's observant—dangerously so. Most civilians don't notice these patterns. Which means she's either trained or unusually perceptive. Neither option fits with barista employment.

"I like my privacy." I maintain eye contact, searching for tells. Her pupils dilate slightly. She's studying me just as intently as I'm studying her.

"Everyone has secrets." The sentence hangs between us, loaded with implications.

She leans closer, bracing one hand on the table edge. The scent of coconut intensifies. A strand of dark hair falls across her face, and I resist the irrational urge to brush it back.

"You look like you're waiting for something important," she says, lingering despite the line forming at the counter .

"Or maybe someone?" Her smile suggests both curiosity and something else I can't quite identify.

"Mind if I sit?" Without waiting for a response, she slips into the chair across from me. "I'm on break."

The movement interrupts my sightline to the door. Tactically disadvantageous. Protocols dictate minimal engagement with civilians during surveillance.

"I prefer working alone."

"So do I, usually." She tucks one leg beneath her, making herself comfortable despite my cold response. "But you're interesting."

I maintain neutral expression, though something in my chest tightens at her proximity. "I'm really not."

"See, that's exactly what interesting people say." She takes a sip from her own mug—something with cinnamon floating on top. "Military, right? There's a difference between how veterans and active duty carry themselves."

My internal alarms blare. This conversation crosses too many boundaries.

"Just good posture. My mother was strict."

She laughs, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Mine too."

The café noise swells around us—espresso machine hissing, conversations flowing, music overhead—creating a strange privacy bubble despite being in public.

"You hear about the commemoration ceremony at Travis Air Force Base next month?" she asks, abruptly changing subjects. "Fifty years since Operation Homecoming brought back the first POWs from Vietnam."

The pivot catches me off-guard. Travis is nearest major military installation. This could be innocent conversation or deliberate probing .

"Not much for ceremonies," I respond, studying her reaction.

"I went to one last year. The precision of those honor guards is something else—twenty-one second pauses between each rifle volley, perfect flag folding with exactly thirteen steps."

That level of detail isn't common knowledge. My fingers tense against my coffee cup.

"You seem well-informed about military protocol for a barista."

"And you seem well-trained in evasive conversation for a..." She tilts her head. "What is it you do exactly?"

"Security consulting." The standard cover slips out automatically.

"Hmm." Her eyes narrow slightly. "Private sector or government contract?"

I've conducted interrogations with less precision than her casual questions. Not once has she broken eye contact.

"Does it matter?"

"Everything matters." She shrugs. "Details tell stories."

Something about her directness bypasses my usual deflection instincts. The conversation flows with unexpected ease, despite every training protocol screaming to disengage.

"What's your story then?" The question emerges before I can stop it.

Her mouth curves into a smile that's both challenging and warm. "Complicated. Just like yours, I'm guessing."

The vibration against my thigh interrupts whatever I might have said next. Three short pulses followed by one long—emergency protocol. The calm I'd inexplicably been feeling evaporates instantly .

"I need to take this." I'm already gathering my laptop, reverting to operational efficiency.

"Of course you do." Something knowing flickers across her face. "Maybe next time you'll try the Ethiopian blend without being forced."

Keep reading "Frost" Asher's story in Shadowed Hearts: Frost – available for preorder now and launching May 30, 2025!