The place smelled like fresh-brewed coffee and sugary crullers, jazz played faintly through the stereo speakers, and a free-verse poet was reciting his latest work on a makeshift stage. The store was holding a performance series called “Morning Muses” in which local authors read their works to caffeine-starved patrons. “That was awesome, wasn’t it?” Chase asked when the poet finished his zillion-line free verse and they stood to leave. “That guy has such an amazing sense of imagery. I wish I could write poems like that.” Spencer raised an eyebrow. “Does that mean you write poems?” “Sometimes.” Chase looked bashful. “They mostly end up really lame.” “I’d love to read them,” Spencer said softly. He met her gaze. “I’d love to write one for you.” Spencer’s stomach flipped over, but she cut her gaze away, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. A’s threat against Chase. Should she warn him? “You okay?” Chase asked. “Of course.” Spencer cleared her throat.
