Initiation (Master Class, #1) - Sierra Cartwright Page 0,24

more upscale, maybe with waitresses and delicious coffee choices.

Instead, wooden tables were packed into a small place. The tops were scarred from years of use. Even though it was still early, most of the sturdy chairs were occupied, and the dining room was loud. But the way it smelled, of coffee and fresh-baked goods, made her mouth water.

There was a line of people in front of the counter, and the restaurant’s meager offerings were scrawled on a black chalkboard hanging from the wall. One special had already been crossed through.

The menu seemed to consist of a limited number of skillet meals and a few sandwiches, but a glass case was stuffed with a dizzying array of scones and pastries.

Her stomach urged her to order something substantial, but her mouth demanded a chocolate croissant.

Obviously noting her dilemma, he suggested, “Get a croissant to go.”

“The calories,” she protested.

“The exercise,” he countered. “I’ll take it upon myself to make sure you work them off.”

Suddenly warm, she untied her belt and opened the buttons on her coat. “In that case, I want the spinach scramble. With a side of bacon.”

“What’ll it be?” the woman behind the counter asked when it was their turn. She plucked a pen from behind her ear and poised over a pad all without making eye contact.

Must be the way she managed the large crowd.

“Coffee?” he asked Jennifer.

“Water is fine. I’m holding out for a mocha latte.”

“I should have guessed.” He placed their orders.

Impressively, the woman still didn’t glance up as she grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee before replacing the carafe on the burner. After tucking the pen back into place, she slid a plastic glass across the counter toward Jennifer, pointed to a pitcher, then put two croissants in a bag. “Anything else?” she asked, her fingers already flying over the keys on the cash register.

When she announced the total, Jennifer reached into her purse for a twenty-dollar bill to pay her part of the tab, but froze when Logan said, “Put it away.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.

His eyebrows drew together formidably.

The woman behind the counter finally looked up. She glanced at Jennifer then Logan before taking his money.

She gave him change, and he dropped it into the tip jar. “Your number is twenty-one. Pick up your order at the end of the counter when it’s called.” She plucked the pen from behind her ear again. “What’ll it be?” she asked, moving on to the people standing behind them.

Effectively, efficiently, they’d been dismissed.

Jennifer grabbed her glass, while he picked up his coffee and the bag containing the pastries.

“Look, Logan, there’s no reason I shouldn’t pay my fair share. It’s not like this is a date or anything,” she said after they’d selected napkins and silverware, filled her glass and were seated at a table for two near the window.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t disagree with me in public again.” His tone was clipped, tight, as if it took effort to exercise control.

She squirmed when he leveled a chilly stare on her. “It wasn’t really an argument,” she protested.

“I wanted to buy you breakfast. I’m happy to discuss that, but not in front of others.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Am I?”

He scowled, and heat chased up her spine to settle at the base of her neck. He looked ferocious, every bit the Dom.

“Look…”

He waited.

“Just because we…” She picked up her water and took a drink, pretending her hand wasn’t trembling.

“Had a D/s scene that had you screaming my name?”

“That’s not a reason for you to buy me breakfast.”

“Then what is?”

She felt as if she’d been dumped into the ocean without a life raft. Were all Doms like this? Annoying? Frustrating? Rigid? And if so, that might be a good reason to avoid a relationship with one.

“Not everything is worth an argument,” he told her. Then his lips twitched. “There are certain times to just say thank you.”

“But…”

“It’s just breakfast. It’s not like I threw you over my shoulder and carried you off to my dungeon, stripped you bare, shackled you to my overhead hook and imprisoned you for life as my sex slave.”

Fuck. The image seared itself into her brain. Heat danced across her nape. To distract herself, she shrugged from her coat and draped it over the chair back. Still, the thought remained, gaining energy.

“Choose your battles,” he suggested.

Their number was called. After tapping the table twice, as if to punctuate his point, he rose to fetch their food.

She thought over his words. It wasn’t so much that she