Page 31 of The Risk Taker

I get to drink my body weight in caffeine, the songs are usually decent, and sometimes people tip me with a phone number scrawled on a napkin—never my type but still kind of flattering. It’s an easy job, decent pay, and no one cares if I show up a little hungover as long as the espresso machine’s running.

But today, I can’t focus for shit.

I’ve remade the same cappuccino three times because I keep forgetting the foam. The milk’s spitting, the cup’s overflowing, and I’m just standing here, zoning out.

Behind the pastry case, Anoopa looks up from wiping the glass. Her dark braid slips forward when she straightens, the tiny silver stud in her nose catching the light pouring in from the windows.

“You’re off today,” she says, one brow lifting.

“Wow,” I say, dumping the third failed cappuccino down the sink. “You’ve got sharp instincts. What gave it away?”

“The fact that you’ve been steaming milk for five minutes,” she says dryly. “Usually, by now, you’ve hit your quota of flirting with soccer moms.”

I glance at her. “MILFs need love, too.”

She narrows her gaze. “And that’s strike one before noon.”

“That’s your rule,” I remind her. “Not company policy.”

“You’re lucky it’s not,” she says with a laugh. “You’d be fired if it were.”

I snort and lean my hip against the counter, watching her restock croissants. Six months working together, and I’ve learned she’s small, smart as hell, brings a Tupperware of butter paneer on Fridays that always smell better than whatever sad sandwich I bring, and is always—annoyingly—right.

I stretch, trying to work the stiffness out of my shoulders, but my head’s somewhere else entirely.

Ever since last night, my thoughts have been scrambled, drifting to the night after the frat party.

Nathan sitting close enough that his arm brushed mine every time he shifted. His eye roll when I told him he needed flirting lessons, the way his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, the way he freaked out and left when we looked into each other’s eyes and?—

“Logan.”

I blink and realize I’ve been staring at the espresso machine again. “What?”

Anoopa watches me for a minute, her thick brows knitting together. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”

She gives me a long look, then hums under her breath and turns back to the pastry case. “Maybe drink some water before you pass out.”

I roll my eyes. “Thanks for the concern, Mom.”

She snorts. “I’m literally two years younger than you. And you wish you had a mom as patient as me.”

I crack a smile at that, but it fades quickly, because… yeah. I do.

I let out a sigh and try to focus on refilling the milk jug. It doesn’t work, though, because even with the noise of the steamer, the smell of espresso, and the line of people waiting, my head keeps circling back to him.

Which is ridiculous.

Because Nathan is… Nathan. Human cardboard. Straight-A student. Poster boy for self-control. Painfully straight.

Right?

Except now that I’m actually thinking about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen proof of that.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t bring girls home. If someone hits on him at a party, he smiles, turns them down, and that’s the end of it.

He doesn’t talk about girls like Austin does—ordid, I should say, before Maisie came into his life—or the way Ryan does when Isabella’s name comes up and he gets that smug look that makes everyone want to throw something at him.