Chapter 3 — Crossing Paths
Third Person
The soft chime of the café doorbells was nearly drowned out by the lively murmur of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine. The scent of roasted coffee beans mingled with the faint sweetness of pastries, creating a comforting warmth that wrapped around Isla Merrick as she stepped into Lena’s favorite coffee shop. The cozy space was a stark contrast to the cold, polished efficiency of the bank, its mismatched furniture and colorful art-lined walls exuding a casual charm that made Isla feel slightly out of place. Her gaze lingered on a crooked painting of a sunlit field on the wall—it was not straight, a detail that made her fingers twitch with the urge to fix it.
She adjusted her glasses and clutched her tablet closer, scanning the room for an empty seat. The café was unusually crowded this morning, every table occupied by clusters of people engaged in animated discussions or hunched over laptops. Her eyes darted between the bustling tables, her shoulders stiffening as she realized there was only one spot available—half of a small, round table near the window, already occupied.
Callum Hayes sat there, scrolling through his phone with a furrowed brow. His tousled dark brown hair fell slightly over his forehead, and he wore a flannel shirt rolled to the elbows, paint stains dotting the cuffs in a haphazard pattern. It wasn’t his rumpled appearance that made Isla hesitate, though. It was the fact that he was the last person she had hoped to encounter outside of work.
“What are the odds,” she muttered under her breath, her eyes flicking toward the door as though calculating the possibility of escape. But the line of impatient customers forming behind her left no room for dithering.
Taking a deep breath, she approached the table, reminding herself that this was just a seat. Nothing more.
“Mr. Hayes,” she said, her tone polite and restrained. Callum looked up from his phone, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly before a flicker of recognition crossed his face.
“Oh,” he said, his voice tinged with surprise. “The bank manager. Isla, right?”
“Ms. Merrick,” she corrected automatically, her tone crisp but not unkind. “May I share this table? It seems to be the only available one.”
Callum’s expression shifted from surprise to faint amusement. He set his phone down and gestured toward the chair opposite him. “By all means, Ms. Merrick. I wouldn’t dream of standing between you and your coffee.”
She ignored the playful edge in his voice and carefully set her tablet on the table before lowering herself into the chair. The café’s warmth was a sharp contrast to the chill in her cheeks, exacerbated by Callum’s presence.
A barista arrived with Callum’s drink—a large mug of something steaming and dark. He thanked her with an easy smile, and Isla caught a glimpse of his interaction. The casual warmth in his posture and the way he complimented the barista’s latte art struck her as oddly endearing.
“Didn’t peg you as the type to hang out in a place like this,” Callum remarked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone entirely at home in their surroundings.
“I don’t. Often,” Isla replied without looking up, her fingers brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her tablet. “I’m here for a quick coffee before work.”
“Ah, of course,” he said. “Work. The sacred altar of professionalism.”
She glanced at him, her pale green eyes narrowing slightly behind her glasses. “Is there something wrong with being professional?”
Callum chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Not at all. Just… different from what I’m used to, is all.”
Isla pressed her lips into a thin line. The sharp contrast between them was as palpable as ever—his casual, slightly chaotic energy against her meticulous order. It had been the same in their tense interaction at the bank, and here it was again, somehow magnified by the intimate atmosphere of the café.
The barista approached with Isla’s order—a neatly labeled cup of tea. The simplicity of the label brought her a small sense of relief. Wrapping her hands around the warm cup, she allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts.
Callum broke the silence first. “So,” he began, his tone more curious than teasing now, “do you always bring work to your coffee breaks, or is that just a coincidence?” He gestured toward her tablet.
“It’s efficient,” Isla replied, her tone measured. She hesitated before adding, “Something I imagine is not your strong suit.”
Callum raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Was that your version of a joke, Ms. Merrick?”
“An observation,” she corrected primly, though a faint flush rose to her cheeks. “You did storm into my office last week without so much as an appointment. I wouldn’t call that efficient.”
He laughed, the sound surprisingly infectious. “Touché. But I’d argue that passion has its own kind of efficiency.”
Isla tilted her head, curiosity tugging at the edges of her thoughts despite her instinct to keep him at arm’s length. “How so?”
“Passion cuts through the clutter,” he said, his voice thoughtful as he leaned forward slightly. “Like a bold stroke of color on a blank canvas—it makes everything else seem less important. You just focus on what matters most.”
She considered his words, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. There was a strange sincerity in his tone that she hadn’t expected, and it made her uncomfortably aware of just how different their worlds were.
“And what happens when that passion burns out?” she asked quietly. “What happens when the mess becomes too much?”
Callum’s smile faltered, and for a moment, his gaze drifted toward the window, where sunlight filtered through the frosted glass. His hand rested on the edge of his mug, tightening slightly. “You adapt,” he said, his tone quieter now. “Or you find someone who can help you make sense of the mess.”
The weight of his words settled over the table, and Isla found herself unable to look away. His expression, though still warm, carried a flicker of vulnerability that mirrored her own insecurities in ways she hadn’t anticipated.
She cleared her throat, her posture stiffening. “You seem very certain about all of this,” she said, returning to her measured tone.
“Years of practice,” Callum replied, though the playful edge in his voice was softer now.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed on the table, and he glanced at the screen with a frown. “I should get going,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Work to do, you know.”
The irony wasn’t lost on her, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Of course.”
Callum hesitated, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “You should come by the art center sometime,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes earnest. “It’s more than just a project to me—it’s… personal.”
Isla blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “I’ll… consider it,” she said carefully.
He smiled, a lopsided grin that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken words. “Good. See you around, Ms. Merrick.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Isla to sit alone at the table, her tea cooling in her hands. She stared at the empty seat across from her, her thoughts swirling with questions she hadn’t expected to ask.
Her fingers brushed against the edge of her tablet, and she instinctively opened it. But as she stared at the blank page, she hesitated. For a fleeting moment, she imagined writing something unstructured, undefined—a thought that startled her into snapping the cover shut.
This was not the time for distractions, she reminded herself.
And yet, as she stepped out into the crisp morning air, the crooked painting and Callum’s words lingered in her mind. Something had shifted, ever so slightly, in the carefully ordered world she had built for herself.
