She had dark auburn hair, sharp green eyes, and a way of saying “circle back” that sounded like a threat with benefits.
I told myself I disliked her.
That was easier than admitting I remembered her Starbucks order.
Black cold brew. No cream. One pump vanilla. Extra ice.
A woman that precise was dangerous.
That Fourth of July morning, I was on my couch wearing gym shorts, watching a baseball game I didn’t care about, and eating cereal from a mixing bowl because adulthood is mostly branding.
My phone buzzed.
Clare Bennett.
I stared at the screen.
Clare didn’t call socially.
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