Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
"Good morning," I say. Professional. Neutral. Perfect.
"Good morning, Thea."
My name in that accent does something to my nervous system that should probably be studied by science.
"Coffee?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Please."
I pour. He watches me pour, which makes my hands slightly unsteady, but I manage not to spill anything, which feels like a victory.
"The omelet today?" I ask.
"Yes. Thank you." He pauses, and I'm about to walk away when he says, "What do you do when you are not working?"
I freeze. "What?"
"When you are not here. What do you do?"
It's such a simple question. Such a normal question. The kind of question people ask each other all the time during small talk. But coming from him, with that intensity in his dark eyes, it feels like more.
"I—" I don't know how to answer. Because what do I do? I go to school. I study. I sleep. I count things. I try not to think about Kansas. "I hike sometimes. There's a trail near here. By the frozen lake."
"Show me."
I blink. "What?"
"The trail. Show me."
"You want—you want me to show you a hiking trail?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because you mentioned it. And I would like to see it."
I'm standing there with a coffee pot in my hand and approximately zero coherent thoughts in my brain because Santino Aleotti—professional race car driver, Monaco Grand Prix champion, man who lives a life I can't even begin to imagine—wants me to show him a hiking trail.
"I'm—I'm working until two," I say, which is not an answer but also not a refusal.
"I can wait."
"You want to wait until two o'clock to go hiking?"
"Yes."
"That's—it's February. It gets dark early."
"Then we will not wait until dark."
I should say no. I should tell him I have homework or I'm tired or I have literally any excuse that would make this reasonable. But what comes out of my mouth is: "Okay."
His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes does.
Something warm.
"Okay."
"I'll—I'll meet you here. At two."
"I will be here."
I walk back to the counter on legs that feel uncertain, and Jolie is beaming at me. “Well, well, well.”
I look at her in exasperation. “It’s like you’ve got supernatural hearing.”
“Only for the right things, I promise, and don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not.”
Jolie puts Wuthering Heights aside, and I almost feel honored. She doesn’t do that for just anyone or anything.
“This is good, Thea. Don’t let any evil voices in your head convince you otherwise.”
I press my hands flat against the counter. "He just wants to see the trail."
"Uh-huh."
"It's not a date."
"Okay."
"It's just—he's new to town. He probably doesn't know the area."
"Right. That's why he specifically asked what you do when you're not working, and then immediately said he wanted to see it. That's definitely about learning the area and not at all about spending time with you."
I want to argue with her some more, but Gail wants to talk to me about an order, and so I can only make a face before leaving.
Jolie has it wrong, I try convincing myself. This is not a date. Really. Right?
I’m just going to show him the trail.
That’s it.
Easy-peasy.
SIX HOURS LATER, AND I realize it’s all a lie.
It’s not easy peasy at all.
I cannot do this.
It's one-fifty-eight, and I'm in the bathroom of the café having what can only be described as a minor crisis. My shift ended at two, but I told Santino I'd meet him here, which means I have approximately two minutes to look like someone who goes hiking regularly and not like someone who's about to pass out from anxiety.
I splash cold water on my face. It doesn't help.
I look at my reflection. My hair is falling out of its ponytail again, and there's a coffee stain on my shirt, and my eyes look too wide, too uncertain.
"You can do this," I tell my reflection. "It's just a hike. People hike all the time. It's not a big deal."
My reflection doesn't look convinced.
I dry my face. Retie my ponytail. Take three deep breaths that Sarah taught me.
I’m safe. I’m loved. I’m okay.
I walk out of the bathroom.
He's waiting by the front door. He's changed out of the sweater from this morning into a dark jacket and jeans, and he's got his hands in his pockets, and when he sees me, he straightens up.
"Ready?" he asks.
"I should change—"
"You look fine."
"I have a coffee stain—"
"Thea." He says my name like a period. "You look fine."
I don't feel fine, but I nod anyway. "Okay."
We walk to the parking lot together, and there's this moment where I realize I don't know whose car we're taking, and I'm about to offer mine when he gestures at his.
The wet slate vehicle. The one that probably costs more than my entire education.
"I don't—my car is here—"
"Your tires are still bald."
"They got me here fine—"
"Thea." He opens the passenger door. "Please."