The tension between us is finally broken when my phone buzzes in my apron pocket, piercing through the silence like a sharp dagger. I instinctively pull it out, the screen flashing with the name Father, which makes my stomach twist.
I pause, staring at it when the humming stops. The little break is broken a second later when a text appears on the screen.
- Dinner with the Mayfields tomorrow. Your attendance is not optional.-
My stomach clenches as I hurriedly lock the screen and put the phone back in my pocket. I force a neutral expression on my face.
"Everything all right?" His voice was softer this time, and his usual bite was smoothed out.
"I'm fine," I answer quickly, picking up the nearest tray and pretending to fix the coffee cups. The deception feels thin, but I'm not going to explain my double life to him—or anyone else for that matter.
Harris returns from the kitchen, bearing a platter of steak and eggs that smells better than I care to confess. He slides it onto the counter with a loud thud and looks at me.
"Table five is requesting for a refill. "Can you handle it?"
"Got it." I'm already halfway to the coffee pot before Harris has finished his sentence, thankful for the distraction.
As I pour coffee for one of our regulars, Mr. Langley, he laughs into his typical conversation about his day at the hardware shop and how his cat scared a raccoon the night before. I smile and chuckle, and the tone of the conversation is familiar and pleasant.
"You're too good for this place, kid." He says this while smiling at me. "If I owned a fancier joint, I'd hire you in a heartbeat."
"Thanks, Mr. Langley," I say, putting the pot down. "But I kind of like it here."
He laughs and shakes his head. "Well, you brighten up the place, that's for sure."
When I return to the counter, the stranger's gaze is fixed on me, his expression unreadable. "You're so not what I expected." His voice is so low that only I can hear it.
"And what exactly did you expect?" I fold my arms, my gaze sharpening at him.
He doesn't respond right away, his focus fixed on me as if he's attempting to solve a puzzle. Before he can say anything, the doorbell rings again, and a loud, impatient voice rises above the commotion.
"Hey! "Can I get some service here, or what?"
When I turn to face the entrance, I see a man standing there with his arms crossed and a commanding presence. Great. Another one. I begin to approach him, but the man at the counter beats me to it.
"Why don't you take a seat and wait your turn?" His voice is quiet, yet it has an edge that cannot be ignored. It's the voice of someone used to being obeyed.
The other man stares at him, his chest puffing up as if he's debating whether to argue. But after a long, tense time, he grumbles something under his breath and slips into a booth.
I stare at the man from the cafe, my mouth slightly open.
"I didn't need you to do that." My voice is sharper than I meant it to be.
"Didn't do it for you." He shrugs, cutting into his steak like nothing happened.
"Right," I say, rolling my eyes. I'm not sure if I'm annoyed or impressed—or both.
As I walk away, the tension in my chest continues to rise. If anything, it is worse. He's arrogant, annoying, and way too curious about me. But just for a moment, I find myself wondering if there's more to him than the flawlessly tailored suit and that annoying smirk.
I wipe my hands on my apron, attempting to ignore the way his gaze follows my every movement. It's as if he's attempting to uncover some secret he believes I'm keeping—which, of course, I am. I'm half-tempted to scold him again, but something stops me. Maybe it's the way he defended me to that nasty customer a few minutes ago, or maybe it's the unmistakable spark of curiosity that I can't shake.
I step back to the counter, my expression neutral, but my pulse thrumming beneath the surface. If he's going to sit there all night watching me like a hawk, I might as well get this over with.
"Look," I say, folding my arms, "since you seem intent on sticking around, why don't we try something novel? Introductions. Proper ones this time."
Xander leans back slightly, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Proper, huh? Should I start with my résumé or just the highlights?"
"Highlights are fine," I deadpan, not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction.
"All right." He sets down his fork and reaches for his coffee cup, taking a deliberate sip before answering. "Alexander Hayes. Venture capitalist, occasional philanthropist, full-time cynic. And you?"
I stop and think my gut clenching. Giving him my real name feels risky, like giving him the key to a locked door that I've worked too hard to keep closed. My fingers touch the pendant on my bracelet.
"Mia," I reply finally, the name spilling out of my mouth like a shield. I've used this name before when I needed to remain anonymous—it's basic and forgettable. A name without headlines or expectations.
"Mia," he says, his voice low, as if he doesn't believe it. "No last name?"
I shrug and force a smile. "Do you always demand full names from complete strangers?"
"Only the ones who make an impression," he adds calmly, his gaze sharpened. "And you, Mia, have definitely made an impression."
My grip on the rag tightens, but my demeanor remains calm. "Maybe I just have better things to do than entertain a guy who thinks the world revolves around him."
His chuckle is gentle, almost real, and it takes me off guard. "Fair enough. But you cannot blame me for being curious."
I roll my eyes but can't stop the slight smile that tugs at my lips. This talk feels like a game, and I'm not sure I'm winning—but I can't deny that a part of me wants to keep playing.