Page 72 of That Defining Moment

“Twenty cents,” Cassian said. “And twenty cents. That’s forty.”

“Pence,” Lysander said. “They call them pence here.”

Cassian looked up. “Why?”

Lysander shrugged, realising that he actually had no idea. “Just — because they do, Cass.”

“But why not cents?”

“I don’t know. It’s just what they’re called.”

Cassian turned to the alpha. “Why are they called pence instead of cents?”

The alpha’s hands stilled on the cloth he was wiping the counter with. “No idea,” he said.

Cassian picked up the next coin, a chunky gold-and-silver piece. “This is a dollar.”

“It’s a pound,” the alpha corrected.

“One pound forty.” Cassian’s chin lifted. “My change is one pound and forty pence.”

“Perfect,” Lysander said.

The alpha gave a single nod and Cassian smiled at him as he pocketed the coins.

Lysander carried the tray to a table in the far corner, away from the windows, where the concrete wall met the glass frontage at an angle that created a pocket of relative privacy. Cassian slid into the seat against the wall, tucked his legs beneath him, and reached for the Chelsea bun before Lysander had even sat down.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cassian chose the seat with its back to the wall, which put the large alpha behind the counter directly in his line of sight. This was sensible. You kept alphas where you could see them, especially ones built like industrial machinery.

Although this particular alpha did smell really, really good. Like browned butter and cinnamon sugar, with a warmth underneath it all that Cassian couldn’t separate from the baked things surrounding him.

“How’s your Chelsea bun, Cass?”

Cassian held the bun in both hands and laid his tongue flat against the glazed surface. The sugar syrup was tacky and sweet, coating his taste buds in a single long stripe, and he dragged his tongue from the base of the spiral to the top in a slow, deliberate pass before going back for a second.

“Good,” he murmured, eyes half-closed, already angling the bun for a third lick.

“Okay.” Lysander’s voice had gone tight. “Maybe stop doing that, Cass.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t lick food that isn’t ice cream.”

This was new information. Cassian considered it, gave the glaze one final lick out of principle, and then bit into the bun properly.

The inside was even better than the outside. Soft dough that pulled apart in layers, currants bursting against his teeth, and cinnamon so warm it spread through his sinuses. He squirmed against his chair, his shoulders rolling, a pleased hum vibrating in his throat.

He took another bite, and the hum came again, louder this time, because the taste of lemon zest had arrived and it was beautiful.

Lysander waited until Cassian had finished chewing before he said anything else, which was how Cassian knew this talk was going to be serious.

“Cass, I need you to know that I wasn’t angry at you this morning.” Lysander turned his latte cup on its saucer, leaving a wet crescent on the concrete tabletop. “That was about me being wound up about something that’s got nothing to do with you. I was just taking it out on the nearest person.”

Cassian licked a curl of sugar glaze from his thumb. He’d already known this, not from any particular insight, but from the notebook on the kitchen table that Lysander had been scribbling away in.

“Is it because you’re about to go and see your ex?” Cassian asked.