DEMI
By the time Maverick walked through the door, I had checked the window twelve times, cremated a batch of cookies, and considered a tactical retreat through the back. My suitcase sat beside the counter like a criminal accomplice in sensible black canvas, packed with enough blood, pills, and lies to qualify as its own legal problem. I kept wiping already clean counters because stillness felt dangerous. Every bell jingle, every footstep outside, every tiny shift of air made my pulse try to escape my body.
Then he appeared, and Sweet Temptations forgot how to function. Conversations stalled. A spoon clattered somewhere near the espresso machine. Even Zoë froze, which was alarming because Zoë feared nothing except split ganache and customers who said “not too sweet.” Maverick did not
