Rafe (Inked Brotherhood 5)

“If only,” I tell him, rubbing behind his ears, “Rafe was as nice and cuddly as you are.”

Raf purrs in response.

“I bet he won’t come to the coffee shop again,” I tell the kitten as I get up. “I wonder why he kept coming this week. It’s not as if he wanted to talk to me. I mean, he would have if he wanted to, right?”

Raf starts licking his leg.

Right.

My cell vibrates with a text. I check the screen, and see it’s Greg.

Now there’s a man who hasn’t given up on me, and that makes me feel a bit better. He wants to meet me for a drink after work, and I sigh.

Why not? It’s not like there’s anything between Rafe and me—or that there ever will be. This time when I reply, I say yes, and hit send before I change my mind again.

It’s done.

I redo my ponytail, pull on my boots and rush off to the coffee shop where I work Sundays. I haven’t even bothered with makeup, or checked what I’m wearing.

A tiny alarm goes off inside my head. Something isn’t right. If a guy interests you, you at least check your face in case you have a big fat pimple on your nose, right?

I’ll check later, I tell myself, trying not to read anything into this, and throw myself into work. Hours pass, and I’m thankful for the traffic that keeps my mind off a certain someone.

Until that someone walks into the coffee shop and orders a latte to take out.

Oh Jesus. I back away into the kitchen, my heart hammering. Does he know I work here Sundays, or is it a coincidence?

As my mind scrambles for an explanation, I look down at my stained purple shirt and apron, and suddenly wish I’d worn something sexier.

This is so wrong, I can’t even.

I watch from my hiding place as he settles back against the bar to wait for his drink, gaze flicking right and left. There’s a gaunt air about his face, his cheekbones too sharp and prominent. He taps his fingers on the bar, then shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. Never seen him so nervous before.

A bang sounds from somewhere inside the coffee shop—I recognize it as a chair falling over—and he jerks back, cracking his elbow, then almost falls off the stool.

Then he’s rushing to the exit, his order forgotten.

Holy crap. What happened here? I push the kitchen door open, step out.

Jessie, who’s been preparing it, yells at him to wait, but Rafe doesn’t look back. He lets the door slam shut behind him, and through the windows of the café I see him running as if the hounds of hell are snapping at his heels.

Worried, sorry I didn’t come out to talk to him instead of hiding, angry at myself for caring, I walk to the bar and take the latte in shaky hands.

“I’ll have it,” I tell Jessie who’s fuming.

“Suit yourself. That fucking asshole.”

“I think…” I replay what happened in my mind. “I think he got spooked by the noise.”

Which makes no sense. I mean, this is Rafe we’re talking about. Always strong, impassive, the rock of the Inked Brotherhood. But now I remember moments when I sensed something was wrong. He’s good at hiding his pain, it seems. At putting a brave front to others and pretending he’s okay, when deep inside he’s not.

I should know. I do the same. Because there are some wounds that are so deep they never really heal.

“Stupid freak.” Jessie throws his rag on the counter. “If a chair falling spooks him so much he forgets his order, then he should be locked up.”

“Seriously?” His words seep through my daze and anger flares. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just shut up, okay?”

“And now you’re on his side?” He huffs and turns his back to me. “Enjoy the latte.”