Page 11 of The Call of Azure (Unexpected Love #3)

I love working at the coffee house. I love that the scent of espresso hangs so heavy in the air that it permeates my hair and clothes after only a matter of minutes.

The pleasant hum of laid-back conversations mixing with the sharp clinking of porcelain and the harsh sound of beans being ground and pressed and steamed into something wonderful.

The way the atmosphere shifts from busy and chaotic to slow and calm over and over throughout the day, like waves slipping in and out along the coast. Even when I’m too busy to remember to breathe, this place is comfortable to me.

I'm sure a lot of people think that spending nearly a decade as a barista is probably a sign that I lack intelligence or motivation or ability, but the truth is, I'm happy with this job. I’ve never had any desire to become a lawyer or doctor or an astronaut. I certainly don’t want to become an accountant or salesman or some mid-level manager who’s always stuck wearing slightly creased khakis and a button-up shirt with an overly tight collar, leaving absurd and garish ties as my only option to express myself.

My passion lies in performance art - aerial silks and fire dancing, and maybe even knife throwing - if I can somehow manage to become a good enough liar to enroll in courses again without Blue finding out.

The first time I briefly branched out in that direction, his constantly terrified expression and the fact that my knives kept mysteriously disappearing, even though we were the only two in our apartment, led me to give it up fairly quickly.

I don’t blame him for hiding them. More than once, he’s stopped me from accidentally hurting myself…

or him…or strangers. I have to admit, he’s pretty good at the whole protective friend thing.

I mean, there was that one time I may have accidentally lit a tent…

and a human…on fire before he could stop me from swinging a lit branch around a lumberjack festival filled with sawdust and chunks of dry timber, but I’ve forgiven him for not being quick enough that time.

Working at the coffee house is an enjoyable way to make enough money for me to pay for boring things like food and rent while providing me with discounted access to high-quality caffeinated beverages and a schedule flexible enough that I can still pursue my art.

Plus, I'm sentimental as shit, and working at the coffee house changed my life. This is where I met the only person who hasn’t left me behind.

As I hang up my apron and move around the partially darkened shop, straightening a slightly askew stack of coffee beans and placing a stray book on the shelf as I make my way to the door to flick off the lights and lock up for the night, my thoughts wander to another - not all that dissimilar - night that changed my life for the better.

Seven years ago, I'd been working here a whole two weeks when a man showed up during my first closing shift.

He settled quietly in at a corner booth, ordering only a simple cup of black coffee before wrapping his arms tightly around a backpack and leaning over to rest his temple on the window at his side.

He was about my age and hot as sin, with a chiseled jaw covered in dark stubble.

Long bright-turquoise hair hung long enough to cover most of his face, and a couple of small black line tattoos decorated his forearms. He was also sporting a black eye and several painfully new scrapes across his cheekbone.

He stared out the window for hours, only managing to drink half his coffee before we started cleaning up for the night.

He left a good tip, as people are thankfully prone to do in Seattle when they've taken up valuable coffeehouse real estate for hours without buying much, and as I watched him leave, it felt like a shame that the evening had been too busy for me to find my way to his table to ask him out.

Although, the way he walked with his shoulders hunched and the slightest hint of a limp made it seem like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders all alone.

He likely had other things on his mind than his dick anyway.

When I arrived around two the next day for another long closing shift, the man was in the same spot, with the same single coffee, staring out the same window.

He was there on day three as well. Though this time, he finished his coffee more than once, and when I silently refilled his cup, dark circles that certainly hadn't been there the first time I saw him had taken up residence under his gorgeous blue-grey eyes.

The staff murmured quietly about him, of course, the beautiful man with the black eye who eventually fell asleep tucked up in the corner and seemed to have nowhere else to go.

Was he part of a secret underground fighting ring?

Did he have amnesia after falling from a subway platform?

Such is the gossip in coffee houses, or any establishment with waitstaff, I suppose.

But when we started to clean up on that third night and his eyes remained closed and his expression soft and peaceful despite the noise we made, I couldn't bring myself to simply wake him and tell him that he needed to leave.

I pulled a chair close to the small booth he’d been residing in for three days, careful not to startle him awake.

I'd watched him a bit during the hours he slept.

The man was clearly exhausted and had been through something obviously less than positive recently.

The scrapes on his cheek were just beginning to heal, and his bruised eye had shifted from slightly blue to deep plum and mustard.

He looked so much worse than the first time I'd seen him.

I settled my hand on his shoulder as gently as I could, but the second I touched him, he jumped.

A small squeak forcing its way from his chest as he clutched his bag tightly, beautiful eyes darting to mine, wide and fearful.

I pulled my hand back quickly as he pressed his body tighter into the corner against the window. “Hey, hun. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you awake. You're safe here, I promise."

His gaze flitted around the room, his body relaxing only slightly as he seemed to realize where he was.

"You're closed. Fuck, I'm sorry." His voice was both quiet and hoarse as he ran a hand down his face.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for. We tried to close things down as quietly as we could so we didn't wake you. You seemed to need the rest."

He deflated in an instant, his gaze falling to the bag he still clutched tightly in his arms. "Ya, I did. I’m…I'm sorry."

“Please don't be."

I knew I was being stupid before I did it.

Of course I did. This was how people got murdered; everybody knew that.

Not taking home strangers who are clearly in trouble is sort of Don’t set yourself up to get murdered 101, but try as I might, I couldn’t convince myself that he was a threat.

Something about this man told me he wasn't a spy on the run or a boxer waiting for his big break. This man needed help.

I reached my hand out and let it hover slowly in his eyeline, deliberately avoiding any quick movements and waiting for him to stop me as I laid my palm on his forearm. He flinched at the touch, but he didn't move, and he didn't look up.

“Hun…do you need help? Do you have somewhere safe to go tonight?"

Time froze for long moments, and I was so sure I'd overstepped or read things wrong. Then he sniffed. Wide, sad eyes filled with tears found my gaze once more as he shook his head no.

Offering the softest, kindest smile I could manage as my heart broke for this strong, beautiful man who had clearly been mistreated by someone, I pulled my hand away and offered it to him to shake.

“I'm Gabriel."

His lips attempted a twitch that might have been the start of a smile in another time and place as he took my hand. "My very own archangel?"

I couldn't help the loud snort of laughter that burst from me, causing him to jump once more. Even so, his lips twitched up just a bit further.

“Not even close, sweetie, but I have a couch and a shower and the ability to order pizza, so why don't you come with me, and we'll see what I can do to help get you sorted out without angelic intervention?"

He held my hand for a long moment as he searched my gaze before gesturing to his eye.

“I suppose, even if you’re a murderer, you smell like coffee and coconut and after all…this…maybe that wouldn't be the worst way to go."

“Let's promise each other that neither of us are murderers and go get food and some sleep, huh?"

His eyes searched mine for a minute more before releasing my hand and shifting to stand with a cringe. “I'm Blue, by the way."

I nodded to Kate, the coworker who had stayed with me in case things escalated, to indicate everything was okay, before offering the man my most brilliant smile as I led the way to the door.

"You know what, Blue? I think you and I are going to be besties. You just wait.”

I nearly jump out of my skin and lose my struggle to lock the shop door with a key that’s old enough it really needs to be replaced when two arms slip around my shoulders, one from either side.

Deep chuckles dance across both of my cheeks before warm lips press briefly to each, and my heart settles.

"Jesus, you guys are so lucky I didn't have a heart attack. Think how devastatingly empty your lives would be without me."

Blue kisses my cheek once more, his arm remaining around my shoulder as Ethan’s hand slides down my arm to interlace his fingers with mine.

"You would absolutely never die that way. Not nearly dramatic enough." Blue laughs. And though I hate to admit it, he’s right.