Page 3 of Temporary Vows

When the door slams shut, the sound echoes around the room.

I drag in a breath and school my thoughts. Beth is a bitch with a chip on her shoulder and a permanent stick shoved up her ass, but she’s not wrong to be angry with me.

It’s the busiest time of the day. Blackstone Brew sits just off Wall Street. Like our neighboring coffeehouses, it’s close enough that the suits pour in nonstop, drawn by caffeine and convenience. The place is always filled with bankers barking into Bluetooth headsets, traders pounding espresso shots before the next market swing, and assistants juggling orders and deadlines like their lives depend on it. And right now, it’s chaos.

If I want to keep this job, I need to get my ass out there and smile like my life depends on it.

I drag my fingers through my hair and pull it into a tight ponytail, the once vibrant platinum strands dry and lifeless against my palms. I don’t bother to look at my face. I already know what I’d see—green eyes rimmed red, puffy and raw, the unmistakable evidence of tears. I secure the elastic and face forward, because stopping isn’t an option.

With my shoulders pushed back, I head out, and my God, it really is chaos out here.

Bodies are pressed shoulder to shoulder, voices overlap, and the line trails all the way to the door.

Tony meets my eyes as I reach the counter and slides a tray of hot drinks toward me.

“Table twenty,” he says. “Two oat milk lattes, one extra hot. Double espresso. Black Americano.”

I repeat it back, steady despite the noise, and he gives me a nod before turning back to the machine.

I grab the tray and make my way to table twenty. I’m almost there when I feel that familiar prickle of unease at the base of my neck.

My situation has undoubtedly made me more paranoid than normal, but it’s not without reason.

I’ve caught the same black SUV idling across the street from my apartment more than once; the driver—one of Marcus’ guys—never gets out. And he never looks away. He always makes it clear that he’s watching me.

I glance to my left, following the eerie sensation, and my breath stutters.

My gaze lands on the same man I saw in the SUV.

Dark eyes meet mine, and the knife scar across his face curves with his smile.

His worn leather jacket and the tattoos creeping up his neck and across his cheeks mark him as someone who doesn’t belong here, yet he’s sitting comfortably in the back corner like he’s part of the furniture.

He lifts his coffee cup with deliberate slowness and tips it in my direction.

A silent toast.

My stomach drops.

The tray tilts in my hands.

I lose my footing, my bearings, everything, and turn too fast, slamming straight into a wall of solid muscle.

The drinks on my tray surge forward, splashing over a pristine white shirt and suit jacket. Then everything smashes on the floor.

I stagger back, barely managing to right myself, while the super-tall, muscular, dark-haired man I bumped into remains perfectly still, his attention fixed solely on the coffee staining his shirt.

Droplets cling to the sharp line of his jacket. It looks like a Brioni—or something equally, obscenely expensive.

His jaw tightens, his broad shoulders going rigid as he opens his jacket. “What the fuck?”

My cheeks flare hot at the harshness in his tone. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

He looks up, furious eyes locking onto mine, and my pulse slams when recognition hits.

Not the kind of recognition everyone else in New York would know him for.

I knew him when he was my brother’s best friend.