Plus, I get all the free coffee I want. I think. No one has told me otherwise, and I’ve downed at least three of these babies this morning.

“Welcome to Toasty Roast,” I say, turning to the next in line. “What can I get⁠—”

My throat swallows the words as St. Clare gives me an impersonal smile. A stiff, impersonal smile. The kind of smile that says, sorry I broke our pinky swear, but I’ve found you, and now I’ll be the one to shoot you in the head, thanks.

But the word he says doesn’t match the ones in my head. “Cappuccino.”

I blink at him for a second. “W-what?”

Concern crosses his face. “I’ll have a cappuccino, thank you.”

“Like … the coffee?” I clarify, trying to decipher whether this is code for something I don’t know. Like … shit. Umm. Maybe I’m gonna cap-a-ccin-hole in your head? I shake the thought away because that’s a reach even for me.

He glances over at where a huge guy is sitting at a table behind the big coffee machine, then back at me. One corner of his lips trembles upward. “That is what you sell here, correct?”

“But what about—” Thankfully, I cut off before the words pinky swear can leave me. My brain is still chugging along at a sluggish pace, but somehow, I fill in the blank. “Sugar?”

St. Clare shakes his head, and I clock the small bandage over his ear. “No, thank you.”

I’m waiting for any sign of recognition but it doesn’t come.

“Right. Ah.” I’m numb as I ring him up and stutter out the price. He hands over cash and I take it and he pays and I give him change and then we’re looking at each other and I’m lost as to what happens next.

“Is there a problem?” he asks, gaze flicking down to where I’m still holding on to the five-dollar bill.

I wrench my hand away. “I’ll call when it’s done.”

I serve the next person, then get to work on the two orders. Part of me wants to duck down and army crawl my ass out of here. Sure, no one will be there to stop the cafe being ransacked, but the alternative is handing over a drink to the guy I almost killed and wishing him a good day.

Any day he’s not up for murder probably is a good day, to be fair, but it’s not like I can say that either. In fact, it’s better that I don’t say anything. Just hand over the drink with a grunt and go back to the next order.

I can do that.

I mean, I don’t have to talk to everyone.