Page 76 of The Devil of Downtown

She smiles into her mug. “No promises.”

After my shower, I throw on some jeans and a dark sweater and wander back through. This time, the kitchen is empty.

Panic rises for half a second before I find her in the living room, staring through the wall of glass at New York City below. She startles when I caress her waist from behind, resting my chin on her shoulder.

“I guess you really do like this view, huh?”

“Mmm hmm.”

I feel the tiny tremors that ripple through her when I press my mouth to her ear and murmur, “You ready?”

She nods as I take her hand and lead her to the elevator. She looks kind of cute in her dance gear. Tight leggings that hug her perfect ass too snugly and a loose-fit sweater that does nothing to hide those curves. When we step into the elevator, I don’t let go of her hand. I know I’m sending out all kinds of mixed messages. It’s instinctive, territorial, selfish—everything I am.

But I can’t seem to stop myself.

The coffee shop,Blacks,sits tucked at the base of a glossy chrome tower in the business district. But inside, the vibe shifts entirely. Warm wood counters. Matte black machines that look like lab equipment. Glass jars of beans displayed like precious gems. The place smells like roasted heaven and ambition.

People glance up as we walk in. A few nod at me in thatyou’re-one-of-usway I’ve grown used to. Ivy clocks it, brow arching.

We step up to the counter.

She’s scanning the menu. I’m scanning her.

Before she finishes deciding, I slip behind the counter.

Her head jerks up. “Um—Dane? What the—what are you doing? You can’t just—”

I reach for the portafilter. “I can.”

“Look, I’m sure no one’s ever told you no before, but—”

I raise a brow. “I own this place.”

Her mouth falls open.

I shrug, pressing the coffee grounds down. “Julian and I built it a few years ago. Wanted a place that actually served decent coffee.”

“Now you’re just showing off.” She rolls her eyes, fighting back a grin.

“Do you want coffee or not?”

“I do.”

“Then, go sit,” I tell her, already pulling the shot and shooing her away with my hand.

Her lips twitch like she wants to argue, but she finds a table close to the door.

I finish her drink—flat white, extra foam — and I even flick a quick rosette on it just like Charlotte taught me. I hum as I make mine.

The door chimes.

I don’t look up until I hear her voice.

“Dane?”

Leandra.

Offuckingcourse.