And past them all is Fletcher, sitting at one of those tall barstools, long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, his gaze locked on the paperback lying in front of him. The tips of his fingers rest lightly on the edge of the page, not turning it, just holding space. The light from the window slides across his cheekbone showcasing the tiny tinge of red in his beard that I never noticed. His hair is so dark brown that it’s nearly the color of mine, but his beard—also dark—has an auburn touch in the golden morning light. Huh.
