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I splutter. “Of course I have that. Chocolate chip cookie, blueberry cook?—”
“Blueberry sounds good.” He turns toward the shelves at the back. “Ah, there they are.”
And he leaves me there, in the middle of the café, to go explore my books. I try not to stare because, damn, the sight of the tall, hulking alpha among my bookshelves is hot enough to make me hard.
I harrumph, telling my dick to sit down. He’s here for my books, huh? Fine.
He’d better not mess with them, too, or he’ll feel my wrath.
It occurs to me as I take the espresso to the dark and moody alpha, and not for the first time, that I have created this café for myself rather than for others. How else to explain my annoyance when my systems are messed with? I might as well hang up a sign that says ‘Don’t touch the books.’ Which would fucking defeat the very concept of a Book Café.
I told myself that I put the books there for people like me—slightly antisocial bookworms who prefer to hide behind a book while having a coffee. Or for lonely people.
Like me.
Which is absurd. I’m not lonely. I’m almost always surrounded by people, many of whom are good friends.
I’m not lonely.
And reading books doesn’t equal loneliness, and that’s a fact.
Stop second-guessing yourself. Not liking it when people mess with your perfect café doesn’t mean you only created this place for yourself.
“Your coffee,” I announce as I step around the shelves, looking for my customer. “Mr. …? Your coffee.”
I discover him in the romance section. That’s unexpected.
And now you’re letting prejudices in, I scold myself. Just because alphas look like cavemen—sexy ones, whatever—that doesn’t mean they don’t care about love.
I set the coffee down on one of the small tables. “Here you go.”
He nods his thanks. “I’m Archer by the way. Archer McGraw.”
The name suits him, but I only nod in return. “I saw you at the Alpha Bet the other night.”
“Yeah, that was my pack. Kyrian and Roman.”
Roman. That has to be the handsome bartender he was with. “Right.”
“Was that your pack you were dancing with?” he asks. “Tell me about yourself.”
I open my mouth to do just that, instinctively about to obey the alpha command, and stop myself. “What do you mean? Am I interviewing for something?”
“Maybe.”
“For what, exactly?”
“For being allowed near my mates.”
Anger grips me. Who is this fucking guy anyway? My curiosity is replaced by cold fury. “I am sorry, I think there has been a misunderstanding. Have your coffee and go. Courtesy of the café. Drink up, leave, and don’t bother me again.”
His dark brows go up. “Yes, I think there has been a misunderstanding.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” I bite out, “I’ll leave you to it.”
What is this arrogant ass doing in my café? Dammit. Maybe I should make it a private club for friends only and fuck profits. Who needs money anyway? Who needs food and clothes and bill payments and independence from their family?
Fuck.
