Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

Greg

I'm nursing a black coffee, the steam curling up like the slow rise of dawn as I scan the room. The café's a mishmash of chipped mugs and mismatched chairs, and it's got this comforting hum that lets me fade into the wallpaper, unnoticed and unbothered.

My fingers trace the rim of my cup, circling without intent, while my eyes flicker across the room, always watching—habit, I guess.

Then she bursts in, a burst of life against the monotony, like a high-definition scene cutting through static.

The door swings open with confidence, and this pretty little brunette struts into the café like she owns the joint. She's a kaleidoscope of color in this drab palette, her vibrant energy impossible to ignore. It's not just the bold prints that wrap around her or the way she moves—like music turned to flesh and bone—it's everything.

She's topped off with a hat, stylish as hell, tilted just so. It's one of those wide-brimmed numbers that scream 'I've got flair' louder than words ever could. Her hair spills out from underneath it, long strands that catch the light and throw it back with a shine.

"Hey, handsome," she greets the barista, voice bubbling over like champagne. "Hit me with the usual."

Everyone's grinning now, caught up in her wake, and I can't help but notice how she's like a damn sunray in this place. She's all warmth and light, weaving through the tables, leaving laughter trailing behind her like a scarf.

My hand stops its mindless path. Instead, I grip the mug tight, a lifeline in a suddenly too-bright world. I know this isn't my scene, but there's something about her—like a puzzle I want to solve or a code I need to crack.

Yeah, she's definitely got my attention.

I look away and internally chide myself. I have no business gawking over her. Hell, I don't even know her.

And that's what I'm doing when it happens. I'm trying my damndest to not look at her when a scalding wave of coffee crashes against my chest, seeping through the fabric of my shirt. The shock of it has me on my feet in an instant, coffee mug clattering to the table, a few splashes jumping out to mark the white surface like a crime scene.

"Shit! I am so, so sorry!" The pretty little brunette's voice is a frantic symphony, her hands fluttering in the air like wild birds. Her eyes are wide saucers of oh-my-god-what-did-I-just-do, and she's biting her lip in a way that should be illegal.

My skin prickles beneath the soaked shirt, anger and surprise warring for dominance. My jaw clenches as I peel the fabric from my skin, dark with wetness and damn uncomfortable. "It's fine," I lie through gritted teeth, my voice low and restrained. It's not fine. But what can I do? Unleash hell over an accident?

"Here, let me help." She's already pulling napkins from the holder, dabbing at the stain on my shirt like she's trying to erase the mistake. I catch her wrist, gentle but firm. "Don't."

"Really, I'm so embarrassed. Let me pay for your shirt or dry cleaning or...anything?" Her offer tumbles out in a rush, the words tripping over each other in their haste to make up for the disaster.

"Let it go." My fingers release her wrist, and I force a half-smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Accidents happen."

She steps back, a flush creeping up her neck, painting her cheeks in shades of mortification. She's a mess of apologies, and damn if that doesn't soften the annoyance simmering in my gut.

"Can I at least buy you another coffee?" There's hope in her voice now, a tentative bridge extended across the chasm of our clumsy introduction.

"Sure," I relent with a shrug, watching as she turns to signal the barista, her hat still jauntily perched atop her head, as if it hasn't just witnessed the debacle.

I sit back down, rolling my shoulders to release the tension. The annoyance lingers, a bitter aftertaste, but there's something about those expressive brown eyes, that messy cascade of apologetic words, that hooks into me, refuses to let go.

"Another round on me," she says, sliding into the chair opposite mine. "And this time, I promise to keep the coffee in the cup."

"Promise, huh?" I drawl, the corner of my mouth twitching. Maybe it's the heat of the coffee still clinging to my skin, or maybe it's her, but I'm suddenly aware of every detail—the way her fingers curl around the mug, the quick dart of her tongue as she licks a drop of latte from her lip.

"Scout's honor." She crosses her heart, and I can't help but chuckle.

"I'm, Kelly, by the way," she introduces herself.

"Greg," I answer as I lean back to take her in. She's a splash of color in my gray world, unexpected and jarring, but not entirely unwelcome.

"Seriously, though, I'm a klutz, certified and everything." Her hands flutter like birds as she speaks, each movement punctuating her rapid-fire words. She's trying to make light of the situation, and her smile is like a damn sunrise in this place that smells more of burnt espresso than hope.

"Certified klutz? Is there a training course for that?" My voice is dry, but I can't deny that there's a twitch at the corner of my mouth. Watching her animated display is like observing a different species—one that thrives on sunshine and sugar.

"Absolutely," Kelly says, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I excel at tripping over flat surfaces and bumping into stationary objects. It's a gift." She tilts her head, brown locks tumbling from beneath her hat, which is frankly too stylish for a Tuesday morning.

"Sounds dangerous," I reply, keeping my tone even, but inside, I'm wary. This kind of free-spiritedness is foreign to me, and it scratches at the walls I've built around myself.

"Only to myself—and apparently, to unsuspecting bystanders like you." A giggle escapes her, and it's infectious, though I lock down the response before it can show on my face. "I promise I usually have better aim with my coffee."

"Good to know," I say, folding my arms across my chest—a barrier against more than just errant coffee spills. "So, what brings you here today? Besides redecorating strangers' shirts?"

"Work, actually." She pulls out a seat without asking and sits down, her presence suddenly filling the space opposite me. "I'm meeting a client here. I design things...graphics, websites, logos. You know, making the world prettier one pixel at a time."

"Ah," I nod, acknowledging the stark contrast between her creative flair and my own utilitarian view of the world. "Sounds fulfilling."

"Most days." She shrugs, then leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. "What about you? You seem more like a...well, not a graphic designer."

"Got that right," I agree. "I'm just grabbing coffee before heading to the gym. Routine keeps me grounded."

"Routine is good," she says quickly, almost tripping over her words in her eagerness. "But a little chaos can be fun, don't you think?"

"Fun isn't exactly the word I'd use," I tell her, thinking back on the years where chaos was the norm, where it meant life or death, not spilled coffee and laughter.

"Maybe not," she concedes, tapping a finger against her chin. "But it makes for a good story, right?"

"Depends on who's telling it." I stand up, feeling the itch to move, to put distance between me and this whirlwind of a woman who seems to see life as a thing to be celebrated rather than survived.

"Hey, before you go..." Kelly starts, but I hold up a hand.

"Keep your coffee aimed in the other direction next time, and we'll call it even," I say, offering her a tight-lipped smile that doesn't quite mask the twinge of regret for cutting this short. But some stains, like the ones on my shirt and the ones in my mind, need more than a quick cleanup—they need time and space, something I'm not ready to give.

I don't wait for her reply. I can't. Instead, I stride away, each step heavy with the things I don't say, the things I can't allow myself to feel. Not now. Not with her bright eyes and her easy smile that make me want things I have no right to want.

"Goodbye, Kelly," I whisper to the door as it closes behind me, sealing her off from me.

My curiosity about her festers, an itch I won't scratch. Not today. Maybe not ever.