Page 126 of Problematic

One, I hated the new cups because they were too nice.

Two, I hated the pastry case because the croissants smelled good enough to make me regret barely eating in the last twenty-four hours.

Three, I hated whoever bought the coffee shop.

The new owner, whoever the hell that was, had fixed everything overnight and somehow made it worse by being helpful. The espresso machine purred now. The shelves stayed full. The pastry case glowed with buttery little reminders that I was fucking starving. But the new cups were weird, the pastries never heated up right, and the premium-flavored coffee threw all our recipes off.

We also had overtime pay, but that didn’t stop Sam from complaining.

“I have worked doubles for four days,” she said, slamming a sleeve of cups onto the counter with enough violence to make them fear God. “Four. Days.”

Mandi leaned against the pastry case, biting the corner off a muffin she had absolutely not paid for. “Seriously, both you and Kalon were out sick.”

“You’re both getting overtime,” I said, pumping enough caramel syrup to give even a demon diabetes through contact alone.

“I’m not saying I don’t appreciate the money,” Mandi said, mouth full. “I’m saying I’ve started steaming milk in my sleep.”

I glanced toward the new cups stacked beside the register. They screamed money. Mystery-owner money. Rich-demon-with-control-issues money.

I hated that the shop ran smoother. It was a miracle, a suspicious, expensive miracle, and I hated where my brain went immediately.

The line moved. A vampire with a scarf. Two finance demons. A human orderly in scrubs who looked like sleep had divorced her. I kept my smile on, kept my hands to myself, and tried not to notice how every mood in the room brushed against my skin in little sparks.

Hunger.

Stress.

Want.

Exhaustion.

Lust was the strongest of them all.

Kalon stepped behind the counter for his shift, smiling like he hadn’t vanished for four days.

He wore his usual green work shirt, but the jacket over it was new and expensive. His blond hair was damp, like he had showered recently, and there was a faint bruise near his jaw, almost gone. His smile was gentle, sheepish, and tired enough to make my stomach twist.

Sam froze with a milk pitcher in one hand when she saw him.

Mandi whispered, “Oh, thank Satan. The golden retriever returned.”

Kalon lifted a hand. “Hey.”

I exhaled so hard my knees felt loose. “You’re alive.”

“Mostly.”

Sam slammed the pitcher down. “Mostly? You were gone for four days, jackass.”

“I know.”

“We worked doubles for four days.”

Mandi pointed her half-eaten muffin at him. “My arches will never trust men again.”

“You got overtime,” Kalon said carefully.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want to die?”