By the time I get back from the gym, Richie is gone. No note. No glass in the sink. There's just the faint smell of cedar and sex hanging in my bedroom and my sheets twisted halfway onto the floor.

I strip the bed before I even shower off the gym-stink.

Need to wash away the white streaks drying pale against the fitted sheet. Don't need reminders of what happened last night.

Just a little drunken fun. Lowered inhibitions and raised hormone levels can make a dangerous combination, but I've made bad choices before. This was no different from any other one-night stand. 

My phone buzzes while I'm shoving everything into the washer.

ANGIE: Answer me before I drive over there.

I lean against the machine and, after a deep breath, type back:

ME: I was drunk. I'm sorry.

Three dots appear instantly.

ANGIE: We need to talk.

"No thank you," I say out loud as I slam the front-loader closed and set the wash cycle to "sanitize."

Then I turn my phone off and go jump in the shower.

The water pours over my gym-sore muscles and the ache that is still present between my legs. I scrub myself with soap, trying to wash away the feel of his hands. His lips.

Thinking about it just turns me on.

Shit.

Maybe I should think about Blonde Girl. Her long neck and perfect earlobes. The glint of silver at her naval. That very grabbable waist of hers. And her ass.

It doesn't work.

I can still taste Richie on my tongue. Feel the shape of him against me. Hear his deep guttural groan as we both came.

I turn the shower knob all the way to cold, hoping the cool water will deactivate my libido.

Anything to squelch this fire.

After five minutes of freezing water, I'm ready to get warm and cozy and laze away my day off. I step out of the stall, towel myself off, and find a pair of soft shorts and a tee.

In the closet off the hallway, the washer churns steadily, and for a moment I stare at the spinning glass door like it deserves my full attention. Like laundry is suddenly fascinating.

It isn't.

Neither is daytime television, but it's easier than sitting in silence and letting my brain replay details I didn't ask it to save.

I pour myself a large cup of cold-press brew from the fridge, draw the curtains closed, and bury myself under a pile of throw blankets on the couch. Today is a TV day.

But by eight-thirty the next morning, after too little sleep and too many talkshows, I'm wearing a headset, holding a clipboard, and explaining to a new hire why the blueberry muffins can't sit directly under the warming vent because trapped moisture compromises texture.

I don't know if that's true or if somebody in corporate wrote it once and now it's law.

Either way, Priya nods seriously. It's her first job, and I can already tell she's a rule-follower. Good. Better than the slacker she's replacing.

Behind her, the espresso machine hisses. Milk steams. The morning line curls almost to the door. Even on a Saturday, people need their caffeine fix—nurses trying to get to their shifts, couples in workout clothes pretending they enjoyed the same spin class, dads needing a few minutes of respite before their kids' soccer matches.

Everything smells like coffee beans, burnt sugar, sanitizer, and pastry ovens working overtime.

Which, honestly, helps.

There's comfort in a place where every movement already has an assigned order.

Pull shots.

Wipe counter.

Check timers.

Smile when required.

Repeat.

Sydney—just a crew member, but she's a rockstar—finishes topping a caramel latte and slides it toward pickup. "You want me to show her the ropes?"

"Yeah," I say, handing Priya the extra headset. "Shadow Sydney for a bit. Watch how she calls drinks before you touch the register. And don't let Todd teach you anything unless you want to learn the wrong way."

Priya gives one quick nervous nod and follows Sydney toward the counter.

Relieved of training duty, I head to the backroom. My boss, Todd, is leaning against the storage shelves, pretending to review inventory while actually staring at his phone.

"Explain this to me," he says, without looking up. "How does a woman match with me, then not answer?"

"Maybe she Googled you." I shrug.

He snorts. "No, seriously."

Todd is thirty-two, with an expanding forehead, which he compensates for with a goatee that only makes him look older. He's shorter than me by an inch or two, soft around the middle, and somehow always wearing jeans that look like he borrowed them from his mother. Nice enough guy. Harmless, mostly. The kind of man who thinks confidence counts double when looks fall short.

He's maybe a four.

In his own mind, he's at least a seven. Possibly an eight under flattering lighting.

He turns his phone toward me.

The woman on screen is objectively gorgeous. Full makeup and perfectly arched brows. Blonde highlights. Maybe twenty-six, but probably younger.

"You telling me she swiped by accident?" He says it like he'd be less surprised if Bigfoot came in the store to order an herbal tea.

"Did you use that same opening line about how women secretly only want emotionally unavailable guys, and you're willing to play the part?" I ask, holding back a laugh.

Todd shrugs like I'm missing something obvious.

"They say they want honesty."

"Honesty and whatever weird thing you call honesty aren't always the same."

That earns a grin, because Todd hears criticism as encouragement if you phrase it casually enough.

From the front, Sydney calls, "Dylan, register two?"

I glance up. The line has doubled while Todd's been workshopping his dating failures.

"Duty calls," I mutter, stepping past him.

Todd follows me out anyway, still talking.

In the front, morning light hits the windows hard enough to make the glass glow.

"I'm just saying, women put 'make me laugh' in every profile like I'm applying for an unpaid job."

"You know, you don't need to say every thought you have out loud." I grab a sleeve of lids from under the counter, restock station two, and enter my code onto the register's screen.

"That would punish the world."

He means it as a joke.

I think.

Next to us, at pickup, a customer asks for extra napkins. Priya hands over six like she's feeding wildlife.

Thank goodness Sydney is patient.

I turn back to the lobby and smile for the next customer to step forward.

The line moves steadily. A woman in workout clothes orders a triple shot, no foam. Two college kids split a cold brew and argue quietly over whose card will work.

Then the next person steps forward, and my hand stills halfway to the register.

Richie.

Richie is wearing a pale button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, dark slacks, and a striped tie.

His hair is combed properly for once.

He looks like somebody's idea of employable.

Which, annoyingly, works even better for him than yesterday morning did.

His eyes meet mine, and there's the briefest flicker of something—amusement? worry?—before his face settles into something neutral enough that Todd probably won't notice anything.

Because of course Todd hasn't wandered far. He actually leans closer to me and mutters, "Okay, that guy definitely gets matches."

I elbow him lightly, shooing him away.

"Big interview?" I ask Richie before I can stop myself.

Richie glances down at his outfit like he forgot he put effort in.

"Trying to look like I deserve health insurance."

"On a Saturday?" I quirk a brow

"You're working on a Saturday," he retorts.

I doubt he's searching for a retail or food industry job, based on how he's dressed. But, point taken.

Richie leans one elbow on the counter. "In my mind, I'm practicing answering dumb questions."

"Like?"

"If I were a shoe, what kind would I be?"

"Please tell me nobody actually asked you that."

"Last interview, they asked what kind of kitchen appliance I identify with."

A guy behind Richie clears his throat. Loudly. A reminder that there is a line.

"What can I get you?" I ask, pasting on a customer-service smile.

Richie's mouth twitches like he hears exactly how forced my voice sounds.

"Large coffee. Black."

"Exciting choice."

"I'm trying to keep my life simple."

Simple? Is he saying that I have made things complicated? He is the one who came on to me. I was just drunk enough to go along with it.

I punch the order in and tell myself not to read anything into his tone. Or the way I swear his eyebrows just did something suggestive.

Todd is still hovering nearby. It's not like he has a job to do. A store to run.

After a pause, Richie taps his card against the reader, and when the machine chirps approval, his fingers linger on the counter half a second longer than necessary.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough that I do.

Enough that my body remembers entirely too much from Thursday night.

As the transaction goes through and the receipt prints, I tear my eyes away and turn toward the brewer to pour his cup.

Next to me, Todd whispers, "Who's he?"

"Friend of a friend."

Todd gives a low hum like he has already decided there's a story there.

He's right, of course. But I'm definitely not telling him this particular story.

I turn back towards the lobby, full cup in my hand.

"I would've texted," Richie says lightly as he takes the cup, "but I don't have your number, and apparently Angie thinks I've already caused enough damage this week... She's pissed at you for not returning her last text, by the way."

"Is that your way of asking for my number?" I try really hard not to sound like I'm flirting.

Because I'm not.

"No," Richie laughs.

And for a second I'm almost hurt. But then I see him slip a pen back into his pants pocket and he slides his receipt across the counter to me.

"I'll let you be the one in charge." Then he winks.

Winks!

And walks away.

"Didn't know you were a switch hitter, but damn—look at you pulling tens." Todd mumbles and walks to the back.

I want to protest.

I'm not.

It was a mistake. A one night mistake.

But I can't. Not only because I'm not sure if that's true or not, but also because the next customer is already waiting, and the line doesn't stop just because my brain suddenly refuses to cooperate.