I told myself he wouldn’t come back.
Men like him didn’t drink burnt coffee in a no-name diner two nights in a row. They had better things to do, better places to be.
But when the bell above the door jingled, and I looked up from refilling the sugar canister, there he was.
Same leather jacket. Same tousled dark hair. Same eyes—icy blue and cutting straight through me like I was the only person in the room.
My stomach twisted.
I dropped the sugar scoop, fumbling to catch it before it hit the counter. My hands weren’t usually clumsy, but nothing about him was usual.
He slid into the same booth, stretching out like he owned the place. Like he owned me, just by sitting there.
My throat went dry. “Coffee?”
His gaze lingered, slow, deliberate, before he nodded. “Black.”
I poured it, car
