After he’s left and I’m settling my bill, I give myself a postmortem. If I were in Jude’s position, would I have texted Bree right away?

Abso-fucking-lutely. Probably before the door closed on her way out.

So why did I stop him?

It’s because you have perspective, I tell myself. Little Jude—or Little Miles, I guess, though I haven’t actually named my dick—isn’t steering the ship for me, so I can look at the situation from a more logical standpoint.

Right?

Right. That has to be it.

I focus on that instead of the strange other feeling that’s cropping up in the back of my mind.

Relief that the kiss didn’t turn into something more.

And then, disappointment that it didn’t.

Which is the proper emotion. I want this to go right for my client. I want what he wants.

I ignore the little voice telling me now: You’re not disappointed because Jude didn’t get laid. You’re disappointed because now the sexual tension will be drawn out. And what could have been a one-night stand? Could turn into a slow-burn romance.

I put my headphones back on and drown out that little voice completely with an Iron Maiden Spotify playlist.

* * *

By 4:55 the next morning, I’ve taken a half-hour jog around Tompkins Square Park, showered, gotten dressed, and am casually reading a book as I lean against the side of Café Crudité. I even wait a respectable minute after Evelynn has opened up the café before I saunter in, giving her a big smile and a hearty “good morning.”

She narrows her eyes at me before grunting a greeting back.

The table is all mine, of course, and I triumphantly place my bag on its bench before I walk over to the counter.

“How are you doing?” I ask Evelynn before I order, trying to think of something else specific I can ask about and realizing that—despite the fact that I’ve known her name for over a decade—I don’t know a single other thing about her.

“Fabulous,” she responds drily. “You?”

“Great!”

“Mmm-hmm,” she says shrewdly. “Beat your girlfriend today, huh?” She nods in the vicinity of the table.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Anyway. What’ll it be? The usual?” This sad excuse for a conversation has clearly been all that Evelynn can handle at 5:04 a.m. on a Tuesday.

“Yup,” I respond. “Oh, and how about a muffin. Carrot raisin.”

“Living dangerously,” she mutters, not even remotely under her breath.

I smile at her as I slip a five in the tip jar, but she barely even glances at it.

Okay, so maybe I need to try harder to get into Evelynn’s good graces.