Steam curled from the porcelain as the woman set her cup and bag down and slid into the corner booth.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said barely glancing up and stirring her coffee.
He glanced up, eyebrow arching. “I think you’re at the wrong booth.” She froze, finally looking up at him—wrong jacket, wrong voice, wrong face.
“Oh my god.” Her cheeks burned. She groaned, already reaching for her bag. “I should—”
“Stay,” he interrupted, a crooked grin curved his lips. “I might not be the one you expected, but I do make excellent conversation.”
She hesitated, fingertips brushing the table’s worn edge, then settled back. “Alright. Impress me.”
Thoughts?
Love
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