FREYA SINCLAIR
The bell above the café door chimes softly as I step inside. It smells like roasted beans and sugar , warm, familiar, safe. He’s already there. Of course he is.
Johnathan never liked being late.
He’s sitting near the window, long legs stretched under the table, fingers lazily tapping against a ceramic mug. He looks exactly the same and completely different at the same time , sharper jawline, broader shoulders, confidence sitting on him like it belongs there.
He spots me immediately. And grins . He is as handsome as I remembered if not more.
“Freya Sinclair,” he says as I approach. “Still dramatic with your entrances.”
“I walked in.” I said
“You paused outside the glass for five seconds.”
I slide into the chair across from him. “I was checking my reflection.”
“Obvi
