Not with bees—I miss my bees—but any chance to engage the what would happen if part of my brain has always made me happy.
I’ve finally gotten the hang of the cappuccino machine when everything inside me goes on high alert.
Not like there’s a bear that just walked into the kitchen alert.
More like I feel like Sabrina’s on the other side of my bedroom wall alert.
I almost dismiss it—when I’m in the middle of a puzzle, I lose track of time, space, my own name, where I am—but hope ultimately takes me to the back door.
And when I fling it open and take in the falling snow swirling around two dark figures rapidly approaching who come to a quick halt just close enough that I can confirm dog and owner, I can’t suppress a smile. “Sabrina. You’re early.”
She freezes like she’s been caught with her hand in the honey jar. “Good morning.”
“Feeling better today?”
There’s zero guilt in the look she aims my way. Wariness, yes. Guilt, no. “Yes.”
“Good.”
“Did you sleep here?” she asks.
“No.”
Jitter lunges, straining the leash and pulling her along until he can lick my hand. It’s second nature to lean the short distance required to scratch his back.
He’s a good dog.
“Did you stay awake here all night?” she presses.
Am I smiling bigger at her concern? Yes. Yes, I am. “No. I thought I’d get in before the snow and cover inside.”
She blinks.
Blinks again like it’s unnatural for me to actually work.
My cheeks warm despite the frigid temperatures blasting into the kitchen. “Even Super Vengeance Man needs to learn to pour drinks. Come in. I taught myself to use the cappuccino machine, but I don’t like coffee, so I can’t make a positive determination about the outcome of my efforts.”
Once more, she doesn’t have a quick answer. It’s not lack of coffee. She’s carrying her coffee tumbler in her free hand.
And maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I think she’s softening.
Like maybe she thinks I’m cute when I call myself Super Vengeance Man.
I think she’s cute when she’s standing in swirling snow, watching me over her coffee tumbler. I also think she’s cute when she’s competently holding onto her massive dog despite the pull it looks like he’s putting on the leash to lean against me and pant up at me.
“Do you actually think it’s wise to accept a drink made by someone who calls himself Super Vengeance Man?”
“I’m not trying to get vengeance on you.”
She grimaces. “Yet.”
“I’m a fair person. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yet.”
Right.
Her deadline.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I can wait longer, that I can get my vengeance on Vince instead, that it doesn’t matter anymore.
But it does still matter.
I’m so fucking tired of people doing shitty things and getting away with it.
If I don’t hold firm now, when will I?
And I have faith in her.
I know she can find something, even if I can’t.
“C’mon.” I hold the door wider and beckon them inside. “It’s cold out here. Jitter, want a treat? Got a whole bag inside.”
Jitter barks and lunges.
“Cheating,” Sabrina says while she stumbles along behind him.
I grin at the dog. “Good boy. Sit.”
Jitter sits.
I grab the pack of treats out of the top drawer in the desk and look at Sabrina. Probably need to make sure she’s okay with this.
Her eyes narrow. “You can’t not give it to him now.”
Yes. “It’s the same kind you give him.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked your mom.”
“When did you see my mom?”
“I needed a haircut.”
She looks so taken aback by the news that I wonder if there was some kind of invisible line I wasn’t supposed to cross there.
Or is it that she hadn’t heard?
I give Jitter the treat and get a reward of him once again leaning against my legs and gazing at me with so much adoration, you’d think the treat was an entire steak dinner.
“Go kennel,” Sabrina tells Jitter.
He looks at me.
Sabrina folds her arms and looks at her dog.
He flops to the ground, then rolls onto his back, pushing me back three steps.
“Kennel,” she repeats.
He whines.
“He gets lonely,” I say.
“So get in there with him.”
Jitter barks, flops back to his stomach, rises, and trots to his doggy house.
He looks back at both of us like he understood exactly what we said, and he’s waiting for me to follow.
“I have to watch your mom try the coffee I made,” I tell him with a shrug.
Jitter snorts, but he finishes walking into his house and flops to the ground again, where he puts his nose between his paws, his jowls flopping over his legs, and gives us the most heart-wrenching puppy dog eyes.
“Did you train him to do that, or did he come with those guilt-makers?” I ask.
“Those are the reason he’s mine.”
“It’s sweet that your mom adores him but worries he’ll crush you in your sleep.”
“Did you have pets before Duke?”
Weirdly, the question doesn’t feel like it came out of nowhere. And it doesn’t sting as much as I’d expect. I shake my head and gesture for her to follow me up front. “No.”
“So what made you decide to get a dog?”
“He moved in to my trash can and Zen adopted him.”
“I almost got my first pet that way, but my mom refused to keep a raccoon as a house pet.”
That’s absolutely adorable. I can picture her baby-talking a raccoon, feeding it food scraps, making a bed for it on the floor next to hers, and it makes me smile.
Again.
I don’t know that I smiled this much when I was dating Felicia. And that thought isn’t as terrifying as it should be.
I gesture her to go around and sit at one of the stools on the other side of the counter.
“Here.” I set a large café mug in front of her once she’s settled. “How’s this taste?”
I think it tastes like crap, but then, I think all coffee tastes like crap. Zen says it’s a genetic deficiency on my part.
Sabrina lifts the mug to her nose and sniffs. My cock goes half-hard.
When she closes her eyes, sniffs again, and then sips, I have to adjust myself.
There’s something about watching her taste a drink I made that has me utterly enthralled.
I can brew a pot of tea.
I can clean.
I can cook.
But I don’t do it often because it’s just me and Zen and they insist on earning their keep, and also, they prefer takeout.
Watching Sabrina drink something I made—no, wait—shit.
She’s not drinking.
She’s nearly choking into the mug.
“Mmm,” she says without making eye contact. “Delicious.”
It is not. “Delicious?” I repeat back.
“So…unique. And daring. Very bold.”
“It’s bad.”
“No, no, it’s— Okay, yes. It’s bad. It is objectively bad. Did you make it with dirty dishwater?”
“No.”
She sniffs it again, her nose wrinkling. “Did you ferment the coffee beans in a field of decaying lemons?”
That shouldn’t be funny, but I can’t suppress a snort of laughter. “Closer.”
“No offense, but I think Super Coffee Murderer would be a more appropriate nickname for you. The Bean Meanie. The Latte Villain. Is that—did you brew this with pine needles?” She coughs an exaggerated hacking noise and pounds a fist to her chest, making her breasts bounce, which in turn makes my dick strain toward her. “I think there’s pine tar stuck in my throat.”
“It’s a pour-over with heated kombucha and then steamed with the cappuccino thing,” I tell her. And yes, I’m very proud of learning the word pour-over.
“That…is not something I would’ve thought to try.”
“Don’t know if it works if you don’t try it.”
“This was incredibly imaginative of you, but it does not work.” Her brows furrow. “Why do you smile bigger the more I insult you?”
“You’re not insulting me.” I push a second cup in front of her. “Failure is half the process when it comes to learning and experimentation. Here. Try this one too.”
“Did you make it with kombucha?”
“No. For this one, I put my dirty socks on top of the beans.”
She snorts, a smile teasing her lips, that sparkle back in her eyes as she lifts the second cup. “I smell cinnamon.”
“Your nose gets a gold star.”
“I don’t smell coffee.”