She spoke before he could. "What are you doing here?" she said quietly. Her voice was pleasantly raspy, low in tone but high and utterly feminine in pitch.
"Came to get a latte," he replied lightly, wanting to see if she'd bite. She didn't.
"You came an awful long way for a latte," she replied, folding her arms over the front of her fitted, V-neck black top. Her sleeves were shoved back to the elbows and she wore a black sports watch on one wrist, and several silver bracelets on the other. Several delicate, silver chains of varying length hung from her neck, the shortest one pooling around her collarbones while the longest almost reached her belly button. She wore a pair of simple, round silver studs in her ears. "Especially given the fact that there's, like, seven coffee shops within a three-block radius of your gym."
He sighed. "I came to apologize to you," he said finally, watching as one of her silky brows arched in skepticism. "For what happened a few weeks ago."
She met his gaze for a beat before averting her eyes and giving him her back as she turned toward one of the espresso machines. He noticed the large flower tattoo on the back of her neck, done in simple black ink with no shading. His eyes slid lower and he swallowed as he took in her shape. She was small-boned and slender, but she had curves in all the right, womanly places and he had a moment to marvel at the fact that she had managed to conceal her sex as long as she had. There was nothing remotely boyish about her curvy, athletic shape, set off to perfection in a pair of tight jeans.
"Water under the bridge," she replied tersely. "What size you want? Medium?"
"Sure," he answered. "It's not water under the bridge to me. That type of shit ain't acceptable, not in my establishment, and I don't take kindly to shit like that."
She had been measuring out ground espresso for his drink, but stopped. Her shoulders slumped slightly and she turned to glance at him.
"Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?" she asked. "I didn't call the cops, didn't try to press charges. It is what it is. The world is full of assholes."
"You're right," he conceded. "But at the end of the day, I guess you could say it's just my moral principles. I hate bullies and I hate seeing violence against women. It just ain't all right with me, and if nothing else, someone owes you an apology. It's my place, so, here I am. Saying I'm sorry."
"Wasn't your fault," she replied, her back still to him as she began tamping espresso. "You can't control everyone. Skim or two-percent?"
"Skim, please," he replied, and fell quiet. If she wasn't interested in his apology, he was just going to put it on the table and leave it alone.
Several minutes passed in silence as she steamed his milk and let the espresso drip into his cup. When the milk was hot, she poured it carefully into his cup and let it mix with the espresso, stirring it gently. She placed a lid on the cup and slid it into a sleeve, and turned and placed it on the bar in front of him. She didn't look up at him.
"Two-fifty," she said softly.
He handed her a five. "Keep it," he added, referring to the change. She nodded once in acknowledgment and thanks, still not meeting his eyes.
He turned to leave, then turned back. She finally raised her eyes to meet his, lifting her brows in question.
"If you ever want to come back," he started softly, "just know you're always welcome. And I'll personally guarantee that nobody fucks wit' you."
She breathed out a quick laugh, one corner of mouth pulling upward fast into smile before smoothing out. He didn't quite know what the meant and decided that now, for real, he'd let it be.
"Thanks," he said, lifting his cup. He caught sight of her flicking her head upward in acknowledgment before he turned to push out of the café. He cursed himself for his idiotic idea as he headed back toward the subway. What the hell had he been thinking? Sure, he felt like shit over what had happened to her. But who else besides him, and maybe Connor, would ever really understand why?
He winced inwardly as unwelcomed images flooded his brain; there was Mom, lying on the floor in the living room, sobbing as John gripped one of her hands in his, wrenching her arm back around her. He heard his drunken father's open palm slap against the tender skin of his beloved mother's face; the sickening crunch of ribs giving way under the steel-toe of a work boot. He heard her pleas for him to stop, to please stop, that he was hurting her so much. He shook his head quickly, and the memories dispelled. His father was a different guy now, but unfortunately, John the Drunk or John the Wife-Beater were the two things that immediately came to mind whenever Heath thought of his father—not John the Best Grandpa or John the Supportive Sober Father, as he was now.