The Cupid came into Don’s coffee shop on February fifteenth, under a doorway-swirl of pink hearts and red roses. He had a slim leather briefcase in one hand, and glared at the biggest bouquet on the closest table as if it’d personally offended him. “No.”
“What’ve you got against defenseless flowers?” Don had already begun making his coffee. Black, strong, plain: easy enough, and familiar after eight weeks of mid-morning caffeine-themed encounters.
Covertly, he watched those elegant fingers, that annoyed scowl. Raine Amari had pale green-gold eyes and pale red hair, an unusual tumble of curling gold-washed cinnamon Don’d never seen on anyone else; Raine dressed like the embodiment of the universe’s—or at least Seattle’s—most flawless crisply-suited high-powered lawyer, which he in fact wa
