Celeste sat alone at a quiet corner table of the downtown café. Landon had picked a more reserved place but she didn't trust him enough to be that comfortable with him.
So she changed the space to an open one. She picked an open café. If anything happens, people are around, and Dominic men aren't far off.
The café smelled more of burnt espresso than comfort.
The paint was peeling from the exposed brick walls, the music was a grainy jazz hum barely bleeding through old speakers, and the menu hadn't changed since the last time she'd been here—which, ironically, had been with Landon. Their last argument had started in this very booth.
She tapped her fingernail against the ceramic cup of black coffee, trying not to check the time again. It was past noon. He was late. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe this was just Landon's way of asserting control
Making her wait was a typical behaviour of Landon.
