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)
"Oh my gosh, yes. She used to get so stressed she'd start crying."
"You spent like three hours with her that one Saturday, just going over fractions." Warren's smile widens. "She still talks about you. Says you're the only person who ever made math make sense."
"That's—" I can feel my face warming. "I didn't do that much."
"You did. You're really good at this, Thea. At helping people. At making them feel like they're not stupid for not knowing something." He shifts his weight, and his expression turns more serious. "Actually, that's kind of why I'm here. We're doing a fundraiser next month for the program. Would you be interested in helping? You were so good with
the students last year, and we could really use someone like you."
"Oh, I don't know if I have time—"
"Come on, it'll be fun. Remember that guy who couldn't pronounce 'throughout' and you made up that whole song about it?" He laughs, and I find myself laughing too, the memory bubbling up. "He still sings it. Every time he sees me. Last week he was at the grocery store and just started singing it in the produce section."
I can only shake my head. “Seriously?”
"Yes. Full volume. People were staring." Warren's grinning now, that infectious kind of grin that makes you want to grin back. "The cashier thought he was having some kind of episode."
I'm laughing now. Really laughing. The kind that makes my shoulders shake and my eyes water slightly. "That's amazing."
"It was mortifying. But also kind of great?" He leans forward slightly, his eyes bright with amusement. "The point is, you made a difference. You make people feel like they matter. Like they're worth the time." His voice softens. "That's a gift, Thea. You should use it more."
I can feel my cheeks heating up at his words. I’m just not used to hearing such nice words, and I’m not sure how to take it.
"So what do you say?" Warren asks. "One afternoon? Maybe two? I'll buy you coffee afterward. The good stuff, not this swill you serve here."
"Hey, our coffee is excellent."
"It's passable at best."
"It's award-winning."
"What award? The 'At Least It's Hot' award?"
I grab a dish towel and swat at him, and he ducks, laughing. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. There's a difference." He's still grinning, and I'm still smiling, and this—this is what easy feels like. No tension. No counting. No measuring the distance between bodies or wondering what he's thinking behind that unreadable mask.
Just—laughing. Joking. Being myself without feeling like I'm about to shatter into pieces.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Yeah, I can help."
"Yes!" Warren actually pumps his fist, which is so dorky it makes me laugh again. "You're the best. Seriously. The students are going to be so excited."
"I doubt that—"
"They will. Mrs. Bonitez is going to cry. Fair warning." He reaches across the counter and squeezes my arm—casual, friendly, the kind of touch that means absolutely nothing. But his hand is warm, and his smile is genuine, and I realize I'm leaning forward slightly, relaxed in a
way I haven't been in days.
"I'll text you the details," he says. "Same number?"
"Same number."
"Perfect." He squeezes my arm once more before letting go. "Hey, thank you. Really. I know you're busy, but this means a lot. To me. To the program. To—" He stops. "Just—thank you."
"You're welcome."
He grabs his coffee cup—the one he apparently thinks is terrible—and heads toward the door. But halfway there, he turns back. "Hey, Thea?"
"Yeah?"
"You seem different today. More like yourself." His expression is thoughtful. "It's good to see."
Then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him, and I'm standing here with that warm, simple feeling still glowing in my chest.
I turn back to my napkin dispensers, still smiling.
And that's when I see him.
Santino.
He's standing. Just—standing. Beside his booth, his coffee cup gripped in one hand, his jaw tight. And he's staring at me with an expression that makes something in my stomach drop.
Raw. Undisguised. Burning in those dark eyes like fire.
For a second—just one second—the mask is completely gone. And what's underneath is something fierce and possessive and so intense it makes me take a step back.
Then the mask slams back into place.
He walks to the register. Sets down money. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't say a word.
Just leaves.
THE REST OF MY SHIFT passes in a blur.
By closing time, I'm the only one left. Gail went home early. Jolie had class. It's just me, wiping down tables and counting chairs (fourteen) and trying not to think about the way Santino looked at me when Warren was here.
I lock the front door. Turn off the lights. Grab my coat from the back.
The February air hits me when I step outside, cold and sharp and exactly what I need to clear my head. I pull my coat tighter and start walking.
Fourteen steps to the sidewalk. Forty-three streetlights between here and my apartment. I start counting.