Dash catches me by the arm as I’m throwing one of his sweatshirts over last night’s sex-date clothes, freshly washed and dried after what I’m going to forever call the Spaghetti Mob Incident. He mumbles something into his pillow.

“What?”

His house is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. It makes my soul shudder to think about going outside into the dark to my car, but today is a coffee shop day, and even last night’s mind-blowing encounter can’t change that.

“Does it have to be this early?”

“They’re already waiting for me.” That’s probably not quite true. I set an alarm on my phone that would give me plenty of time to race to my house, change my clothes, and race to the shop. The regulars won’t be prowling the streets for another fifteen minutes at least.

He rolls over. His eyes are the bright spots in the gray light coming through the window. “Don’t go.”

“No choice.”

Dash reaches up and pulls me down to him. The first touch of our lips is a spark. The second is an inferno. “There’s always a choice.”

God, do I want to crawl back into bed with him. I want that more than anything. I have a full-on fantasy vision of what it would be like to throw off these clothes and dive under the covers, next to his solid warmth, and sleep until the sun is fully up. “I have to go.”

He lets me stand up but runs his hand down my arm so that our fingers can twine together. “We’re not done yet.” It’s almost a question, almost a prayer.

“We’re done for now. Remember?” I wave a hand between the two of us. “Enemies.”

“Enemies,” he repeats, and all I can think about is his thickness between my legs, the way he spread me to my absolute limit, the way I fucking loved it.

“See you on the battlefield,” I tell him, and then I steal away out into the night.

* * *

There are too many people waiting outside Medium Roast.

Way too many.

Lou’s car is parked where it always is, down the block, but there are eleven others parked downtown. 

Yes, I counted. 

What are they doing here?

I can feel them watching me while I drive to my usual spot down the block, and it sends a shiver down my spine. After wearing Dash’s clothes all night, my hoodie feels too tight. I should be naked. I should be in his bed. If I can’t be there, I should be somewhere I can clear my mind. A lot happened last night. Spaghetti hitting the ground and covering me with ground beef. Admitting to him the reason I didn’t become a photojournalist.

Plus, there was the middle of the night, when I woke him up to add to the story, which is not something I ever want to do.

It struck me like lightning as I was drifting off to sleep in his bed, and I’d rolled over so quickly it freaked him out.

“What is it?” he’d whispered, the dark already settled over both of us.

“She made it,” I whispered back. “I didn’t tell you. And I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about what happened.” The worry had risen in my chest, drowning out everything else. What if he thought I was using this other woman’s horrible misfortune as an excuse for running back to Lakewood?

“Who?”

“The woman I saw. The woman who—”

“Right. Yes. I remember,” he’d said quickly, trying to shield me even then from the memory. “She lived?”

“Yeah.” My throat went tight. “There was an article in the paper about it. They called me a hero, but I wasn’t a hero. I took pictures and dialed a phone number.”

Dash had curved his arm around me, pulling me close. “You saved her.”

I’d turned away then, pressing my spine into the long lines of his body, and tried to fall asleep. I didn’t tell him that I might have saved her, but I didn’t know if I could ever save that version of myself. The one who had a dream. The one who went after it.

I’m still half-stuck in that moment when I throw myself out of the car and hustle my ass down the block to Medium Roast. Eyes everywhere. Jesus. Couldn’t they wait until six-thirty like normal people?

I start the coffee brewing and go over the stash of coffee. There’s one bag left of medium roast. A late-afternoon rush depleted it pretty well. There’s plenty of dark, though, and the espresso should last, as long as nothing crazy happens.

Famous last words.

* * *

It’s not Lou who’s first to the door. It’s Morris.

“Evelyn,” he booms as soon as he’s pulled the door open. “We’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what, Morris? Morning, guys.” Lou’s coming in right behind him, and a few other guys who I know for a fact normally fuel up at the local gas stations before they go to their hunting camps for the day.

“The usurper,” he says with a scowl, and steps up to the counter, bills already in hand.

“You mean The Coffee Spot? It hasn’t opened yet.”

“It won’t open, either, if we get our way.” 

First the mob action at Dash’s house. Now this. It’s cute, in a way, and weird as hell in another. I’m glad they care about Medium Roast. I’m really glad.

But I also care about Dash.

All the feelings I’ve had about him swirl together in one giant super-emotion that hits me like a sledgehammer, right in the center of the chest. The way he makes me feel safe. The way he makes me feel challenged, bright, alive. The way he makes me feel so turned on I could die. I trusted him enough last night to tell him why I dropped out of the only career I’d made.

I care about him a lot.

I might even love him.

No. That’s crazy.

Isn’t it?

I’m so dumbstruck that Morris’s words don’t register until he’s already over at the other counter, pouring himself coffee. “Wait—Morris, what do you mean? What are you planning to do?”

He turns with a fierce determination on his face. “We’re going to have your back, Evelyn. Don’t you worry.”