Frost and Raine

1

The Cupid came into Don’s coffee shop on February fifteenth, under a doorway-swirl of pink hearts and red roses. He had a slim leather briefcase in one hand, and glared at the biggest bouquet on the closest table as if it’d personally offended him. “No.”

“What’ve you got against defenseless flowers?” Don had already begun making his coffee. Black, strong, plain: easy enough, and familiar after eight weeks of mid-morning caffeine-themed encounters.

Covertly, he watched those elegant fingers, that annoyed scowl. Raine Amari had pale green-gold eyes and pale red hair, an unusual tumble of curling gold-washed cinnamon Don’d never seen on anyone else; Raine dressed like the embodiment of the universe’s—or at least Seattle’s—most flawless crisply-suited high-powered lawyer, which he in fact was.

He’d arrived from Los Angeles eight weeks ago, a specific time and place which Don knew because the name had been recognizable. Mentioned in a few tabloids, a few of those gossip sites Don’s ex-boyfriend had liked to devour. High-profile celebrity divorce settlements, billion-dollar agreements, a smile that’d been caught in paparazzi snapshots: the beautiful Cupid who paradoxically made a living from separations. Raine was famous, in the way that lawyers sometimes were famous; occasionally people at Uncommon Grounds glanced up from conversations or laptops when he came in.

One enterprising reporter’d suggested that Raine had been the reason for at least one of those divorces, with no greater substantiation than Raine’s good looks and Cupid heritage. This was almost certainly untrue, but nevertheless: Raine had departed Los Angeles and arrived here. Incontrovertibly so. Frequently with caffeine in hand.

And he was exactly Don’s type, graceful and dazzlingly competent and more brilliant than anyone Don’d ever met, the sort of person who might’ve been made to feature in every fantasy ever daydreamed by anyone; he was also not at all Don’s type, because—

“It’s February fifteenth. Valentine’s Day is over. And your little ice displays in the window are just showing off.”

Don ignored the critique of his windows—Raine knew perfectly well that no Cupid had room to comment on a Frost’s ice-patterns, thank you—and reminded himself that he likedbeing a patient and happy sort of person, dammit, and also Raine tipped his baristas well when Don himself wasn’t working. “Isn’t it sort of your holiday? And how’s your day been?”

“You mean the commemoration of commercialization and insincere affection?” Raine cocked an eyebrow at him, somehow making dry cynicism devastatingly attractive. “And my day has so far involved your overhead mobile made of lopsided hearts and the assemblage of complicated arguments regarding custody rights to a Chihuahua. Don’t you dare draw anything on the top of that.”

“I couldn’t if I wanted to. You never order anything with foam.” Don handed over the coffee. He also tried not to feel large and clumsy and underdressed in jeans and apron and blue plaid flannel shirt and the two-week growth of fuzzy brown beard he’d been contemplating keeping. He hadn’t deliberately meant to aim for the hipster grunge outfit; he liked being cozy and comfortable.

Raine would probably look at his feet and judge his much-loved Converse with a single devastating eyebrow. It was, Don considered, entirely possible that Raine, in those irritatingly flattering fashion-model outfits, did not even know what sneakers were.

He added, “I was thinking four-leaf clovers. For St Patrick’s Day. The windows.”

“At least it wouldn’t be hearts.” Raine took a sip, closed his pretty eyes in appreciation, let out a little sound of satisfaction.

This sound was unfair. Someone so brittle and pointy shouldn’t have moments of steam-kissed happiness, sighs of pleasure, glimpses of delight. Don swallowed. Hard.

“Thank you,” Raine said, scrupulous about this as ever—the polished lawyer fa?ade had snapped back into place—and turned to go.

Don said, “Chihuahua?”

“We’re working out visitation schedules. I don’t entirely understand why anyone needs to visit a tiny animal that looks and sounds like a demented miniature alien crossed with a hyperactive fire alarm, but then again I don’t understand a lot about people, so I’ve given up trying.” Raine might have been answering out of politeness, or might’ve simply wanted to be annoyed about small dogs to a willing audience. His fingers were long and slender around the coffee, artwork over a disposable cup.

“But you do understand people,” Don said. He couldn’t avoid saying the words. They just popped out.

Raine glared at him over morning caffeine. “Don’t say it’s because I’m a Cupid. Personifications are as fallible as anyone else, I know you know, and assuming I know anything more than anyone else about desire is an old-fashioned—”

“No,” Don said. “Not that. I mean you’re working it out. For your clients. Because it matters to them, even if it doesn’t to you.”

“It doesn’t,” Raine said, and turned and went out the side door: heading for the stairs and the upper floor of the corporate building, all glass and smoky steel and February mist.