If he dies, it’s all my fault.

The realization repeated in my mind over and over again. Not only that, but all I could do was sit in a waiting room. No one would tell me anything. I’d seen this man at his worst, occasionally at his best—but mostly at his worst—for months. He was rude, distant, curt, and an ornery human being. He had crossed countless boundaries and been an alpha-hole control freak. He came into my life and destroyed it from the ground up.

And I was in love with him.

Me trying to leave might have gotten him killed. That grumpy bastard was lying in a hospital bed all alone. He could have passed already, and I wouldn’t know. He was fighting for his life a few rooms away while I sat stress-eating Sour Patch Kids. If he died, I would never recover.

8 Months Prior

“Stevie, this lady says I made her drink wrong…I swear I did it exactly as she asked,” Jenna said with exasperation. She was a new hire with a lot of experience, so I had no doubt she’d made the drink perfectly.

“I’ll take care of it,” I replied with a smile. “Do you mind refilling the pastry case?”

“Sure, no problem,” Jenna said as I made my way to our disgruntled customer.

“Debra, how are you today?” I asked with a pasted-on, fake-as-hell smile.

“Oh, Stevie, thank God you’re here. These new girls have no idea how to make a cup of coffee.” She rolled her eyes and handed me her cup.

“I’m so sorry about that. Here, let me fix you up.” I began grinding the beans and making her latte. The trick with Debra was that she always ordered a cortado when, in fact, she wanted a latte. I don’t know where she learned the word cortado, but I think she enjoyed saying it and not the actual drink. She would bitch and moan if anyone tried to correct her.

She took a sip. “Ah, perfection, as always. Thanks, Stevie.”

“Have a great day, Deb.” I waved goodbye and sighed. I only had three more hours of my shift before heading to the shelter. After only two weeks at Aspen Java, I became shift manager. The pay was horrible, but I could set my hours around college and my internship.

“You’re the asshole whisperer,” Clay said, tying his apron. 

My gaze darted to his flexing forearms, covered in tattoos. I snorted. Oh, what a useless talent to have. “Thanks. It’s a comfort to know something destined me for middle management.”

Clay chuckled. “No problem, boss,” he said as he moved around me to the espresso machine. He brushed against my backside as he did, and I felt a tiny flutter in my chest. Clay Harding was my type. And that was a problem. He was tall, broad, bearded, and covered in tattoos, not to mention his attitude problem, and he was also a shameless flirt. I swear to God that boomer women came into the shop just to see him. I couldn’t go there, though. After seeing my mother mess around with countless Clays, I couldn’t put myself in that position.

No, I would work my way through veterinary school, rock my internship, and make enough money never to have to eat cereal for dinner again. As I was printing next week’s schedule, I heard a familiar voice call my name from across the bar. I almost didn’t recognize Samantha. She looked different. I gave my friend from high school a big hug. A graying, much older man stood hunched over beside her.

“It’s so good to see you. What can I get for you guys?” I asked, opening up the register. The elderly gentleman grunted, flipped his heavy black credit card onto the counter, and walked away.

“Don’t worry about him. I know his order,” Samantha explained like this was a usual occurrence. “I haven’t seen you in years, Stevie. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks. I’m at Aspen Mountain getting my vet degree right now,” I said, eager for her to leave so I wouldn’t be late for my internship.

“Oh, sounds expensive.” She giggled. 

I thought that comment was ironic coming from someone wearing Louboutin heels, but I ignored it. 

“We’ll both take a French roast, please,” Samantha said.

“Sure.” I rang her up. “Do you or your dad want cream or sugar?”

She giggled again. “Oh, honey, that’s not my dad. Well, at least not the kind of dad you’re thinking of.”

I mentally kicked myself for the wrong assumption. I scanned the hefty credit card, and my mind whirled with curiosity. I had to ask. “Sorry about that. Who is he?” It was probably rude, but I couldn’t help myself. I was nosy.

She leaned in close, plopping her Coach bag on the counter. Her outfit probably cost more than I made in six months. “That’s my sugar daddy,” she whispered.

I lifted my eyebrows in surprise. I didn’t know what to say. So my high school buddy had sex with an older man for her expensive ensemble? Wow, I couldn’t imagine. That gentleman she came in with sat hunched over and breathless in a shop armchair. I suppressed a shiver.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, noticing my staring.

Fuck, I was being so rude.

“I get anything I want, no questions asked. I haven’t paid for anything in a year.” She shrugged.

“Yeah, no, as long as you’re happy…” I stammered, feeling flushed.

She smiled and fished something out of her purse and slid it across the counter to me. “It’s a quicker way through student loans than being a barista.”

I raised an eyebrow and picked up the business card.

“See you around,” she said with a wink as she took her coffees and sauntered over to her guy.

When they disappeared out the front door, I flipped the card over and read the curvy script.