Page 12 of When In Doubt

“Will you just let me be sorry?” he huffs out impatiently, though I think I see a slight glimmer of teasing in his expression. “I get that the customer is always right or whatever, but you can let me be the asshole, okay?”

Against my better judgment, I give him a small smile, finding his manner surprisingly entertaining. “If you insist.”

“I insist.”

“Well, apology accepted. Please try not to destroy my decor any further.”

“I’ll do my best.” He smiles back, the first one I’ve seen from him. His whole face seems to soften, the sharp edges morphing into something boyish and lovely. “See you around, Freya.”

The chime of the bell signals his departure.

I look down at the hot drink. The buttery coffee aroma is nice, but I can’t drink the stuff without it kicking my already high levels of anxiety into the stratosphere.

I step back and all but fall into the leather chair, tapping my fingers against the armrest. One, two, three, four, thumb. Thumb, four, three, two, one.

He’s gone, it’s finished.

I don’t want to think about all the times before, when apologies and gestures were just a tool, when I had no choice but to accept them. It was so much easier than the alternative, the days of being ignored, of being made to feel like I was the one in the wrong.

You’re reading this wrong. There’s nothing to be upset about.

A knock breaks me out of my spiral. My head whips around to see the guy standing on the other side of the glass, frowning. Is he capable of any other expression? He points a finger at the cup, where a trail of steam snakes up from the lip. I look back at him to see him cock his head to the side like a confused puppy. When I don’t respond he visibly huffs and walks back to the door, shouldering his way in.

“You don’t like it?” he asks, eating up the distance between us in long strides.

I lean back as he approaches. “Don’t like what?”

“The coffee,” he clarifies, his tone exasperated.

“Oh, I, um—” I flounder, wanting to end this conversation but not sure how to go about it.

He sighs, running a hand through his dark hair, causing it to stick up ever so slightly. “Come on.” He nods over his shoulder.

“Where?” I squeak, a little alarmed at this stranger trying to order me out of the safety of my store.

“Across the street,” he replies, “I’ll get you something you like.”

“That’s really not⁠—”

“Come on.” He’s already at the door, holding it open and waiting for me to go through. I stand hesitantly, my movements uncertain as I put on my coat. He’s less intimidating now that we’re on even footing, but years of stranger danger talks from my mother (going long into my teens) have made me cautious.

“You really don’t have to,” I say warily, shuffling toward him.

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna murder you.” He motions for me to come closer, quirking an eyebrow. “Becca would notice me trying to get your corpse into my car.” My steps falter slightly at his deadpan delivery. I’m better at deciphering people’s tone and expressions once I know them, but after only two conversations I’m still getting my bearings.

“You could just wait until she’s not looking?”

“Well, now that’s an idea,” he says, his eyes narrowing before he steps aside. “Come on, just a beverage, no murder involved.” As I cross through the door, he follows me out, waiting as I lock it behind us. “You know, you don’t make it easy for a guy to assuage his guilt.”

I expect him to be mad about it, but he’s smiling.

“If it was easy,” I say, relaxing a fraction at his teasing, “how would I know you meant it?”

“Sure,” he replies as we start down the sidewalk. He steps around the back of me until he’s walking along the roadside. “But maybe next time you can just tell me that you don’t like my olive branch.”

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,” I clarify. “It’s a very nice branch.”

“But?”