As far as sit-down establishments went, Coffee was one of the few locations that Larkin actually enjoyed and wasn’t overwhelmed by. It was located in the basement level and patrons had to take stairs down from the street. It was extremely small, but without a sense of claustrophobia. The brick walls had been painted white, and funky but unassuming artwork hung from nails. The overhead lighting was warm and a mellow yellow. The speakers were always on, tuned to the kings and queens of blues and jazz, but the music was quiet, so one didn’t feel like they were competing to be heard. What Larkin liked most about Coffee was the fact that they only had five seats—one barstool at the window, two single tables on the right, and one on the left just big enough for two.

Larkin studied Doyle as he placed their order at the counter. He wasn’t above staring when it came to those shoulders, that trim waist, and an ass so fine even God would’ve said, “Damn.” Doyle paid for the coffees, said something that made the girl behind the counter laugh and blush and probably fall in love that very second, then joined Larkin.

Doyle set two lattes on the table. His had a foam heart design on top. Larkin’s was a tulip in theory, but in practice it looked more like a lumpy penis. Doyle sat before saying, “You look a little stressed-out.”

“I’m always stressed-out.”

“Do you need a Xanax?” Doyle shifted, putting a hand to his pocket for the daily pill box.

Larkin shook his head. He stared at the wall beside him, the rough edges, dips, and cracks in the painted brick for one, two, five seconds. He looked back at Doyle. “Yes.”

Doyle retrieved the little box without comment, popped the top, and removed one of two pills. He set it into Larkin’s extended hand before returning the box to his pocket.

Larkin dry-swallowed the Xanax.

“Evie?”

“I have to tell you something, but you’re going to get angry with me and I don’t want to carry that memory around.”

“I’m not going to get angry,” Doyle replied, his voice that ever-smooth and smoky heat.

“Yes, you will.”

Doyle leaned forward, closing whatever distance between them that the table had provided. “Is it important that I know?”

Larkin nodded.

“Then if it’s important, I can’t be angry.”

That made a certain amount of sense, and Doyle was, if anything, polar opposite of Noah when it came to action and reaction. But Larkin had been bruised and battered enough times, could dredge up any number of incidents where telling Noah something he had felt was important to their relationship ended up becoming an unforgettable association of humiliation or frustration, and Larkin was so afraid he was the common factor and that this—with Doyle—would turn out no different.