BY MORNING, THE RAIN HAS STOPPED. The sky cleared, but the mayhem outside hints how bad the storm was. Nico’s garden is a mess. Leaves and broken tree branches litter the lawn, and half his furniture drowns in the pool.
Out front, Colt’s or Cody’s Mustang is damaged, a metal trash can denting the hood.
It’s only six am. My biological clock’s set to bright and early and won’t let me sleep in on a Monday. I should be opening the newsagents right now, but the owner texted last night saying he needs to assess the damage first, so I’m staying put.
I stand in the kitchen, tightening the strings of Conor’s sweatpants and wondering if using the coffee maker is overstepping. Conor’s brothers are more than welcoming. Even Nico stopped being so scary last night, doting on his fiancée like a good boy, but still…
I’ve not asked permission so this feels like snooping.
Maybe someone will be up soon.
Sitting by the breakfast bar, I check my phone. There’s only one text from Rose—a link to Newport’s social page.
The more pictures I scroll, the more my heart sinks. It’s a nightmare out there. Debris blocks most roads, and cars lining the curbs are either damaged or trapped under fallen trees. There are pictures of houses throughout Newport with portions of roofs missing, shattered windows, and doors hanging off their hinges. The shops on the main street took a hit too.
Me: How are things at home?
I don’t expect a return text until at least eight, but the dots start dancing on the screen a moment later.
Rose: Okay. No lasting damage here or any neighbors as far as I can see, but the big oak tree at the entrance gate lost some huge branches, so we’re trapped. Firefighters probably won’t get here until they clear the main roads, so you have another night with your boyfriend. How is it at Nico’s?
Me: The garden is ruined, and either Colt’s or Cody’s car got smacked around, but we’re all good. Everyone’s still asleep.
Rose: I’m surprised you’re up. I thought you’d be too exhausted after all the sex to crawl out of bed this morning.
I roll my eyes. She’s always been straight to the point, never sugar-coating or tiptoeing around any topics. She blabbed for three hours straight when she lost her V card to her high-school crush a few months ago, then wished the plague on him a couple of weeks later when they broke up.
Me: No sex. I fell asleep watching a movie.
Rose: Jeez, sis! You’re so boring. Dad’s been asking about Conor.
My heart thumps faster, working pretty well as a caffeine replacement. I put my fingers to work, typing a reply, but another message comes through before I press send.
Rose: Well, not Conor, per se. Just asked if I knew that boyfriend of yours. When will you tell him you’re dating a Hayes?
Preferably never. I’m sure his reaction won’t be good. While he can’t forbid me seeing him, he can make doing so much harder. It would be easiest to move out so he’d no longer have any say in my love life or otherwise, but that takes money. Abby and I are working toward renting a flat together, but we’re not there yet financially.
Me: I don’t have much choice. I’ll talk to him soon.
Rose: Good. He’s getting suspicious. Butter him up first. Make Conor sound like a fucking godsend, and maybe it’ll go down better.
I don’t think she believes that.
Me: You think it’ll be rude if I make myself a coffee? No one’s up yet.
Rose: God, you’re so dumb sometimes! What do you think is gonna happen? They’ll publicly hang you or something? Get a fucking coffee.
Easier said than done. You’d think it’d just be a click-of-a-button kind of thing. Unfortunately not. The coffee machine built into the kitchen design is a glorious work of art and high-spec engineering.
There’s a touch screen, but the language is set to Italian, so I’m translating the words back and forth on my phone, not daring to blindly click things I don’t understand.
After a bit of fumbling, I find the right menu, the right coffee, and even, after searching the cupboards, a cup. But once the machine starts whirring it only pours enough for two, maybe three sips into said cup.
It’s not the latte I wanted. This is an espresso.
Something flashes in the corner of the screen, and thanks to Google Translate, I work out it’s milk. The machine grinds, heaves, and makes me step back from a steam-hissing nozzle.
After two more tries and my frustration mounting high, I give up, settling back into my seat.
The bitter smell wafts in the air, assaulting my senses. While it wakes me to an extent, it’s not hot coffee on my tongue.
“Morning,” Cody says ten minutes later, making me jump out of my skin when he appears so stealthily I didn’t hear him coming until he was right here. “Early bird?” he asks, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“I normally start work at six. I’m programmed to get up early and don’t sleep well in new places.”
“You slept just fine on the couch,” he chuckles. “Drooled all over Conor’s t-shirt.”
I scrunch my nose. “At least tell me I wasn’t snoring.”
“Not that I heard. You had a coffee yet?” He pokes the touchscreen with ease.
“I tried. I couldn’t make the machine work. It kept giving me espresso. I clicked milk, but it just hissed at me.”
Cody opens the fridge, pulling out a small milk jug. “It’s a coffee-shop-grade machine. No milk container anywhere, so you need to froth it yourself. C’mon.” He waves me over. “I’ll show you.”
“Why is it set to Italian?”
“It’s imported. No English language in the software.” He flicks to the main menu, tapping the correct words. “I don’t speak Italian like Colt, so I memorized the sequence when we moved here.”
“I used Google Translate.”
“Now pop the nozzle in the jug,” he says once the machine spits another tiny amount of coffee into a tall glass. “Then hold the milk button for twenty seconds.”
With the grace of an actual barista, he tops up the cup and passes it over, watching me take a sip.
“That’s nice, thank you.”
“Best coffee you’ll ever have, Little Bee.”
“Keep giving her shit and this…” Conor says, entering the kitchen, finger aimed at Cody’s coffee, “will be your last meal.”
Cody smirks, winking at me out of Conor’s view. “I’m being nice, bro. I like that nickname. Chill. You’re starting to sound like Logan.”
“Morning.” Conor leans in, kissing my neck, then snatches Cody’s cup out of his hand. “Thanks, bro.”
“Morning. Did I wake you two trying to get this thing working?”
They both shake their heads.
Within the hour, Colt’s up, but Nico and Mia don’t come down until nine. Since I’m the unexpected, trespassing guest, I offer to make breakfast.
