Total pages in book: 19
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 17988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 90(@200wpm)___ 72(@250wpm)___ 60(@300wpm)
"Makes it look cool."
"I don't see taps anywhere."
"Yet." I take a sip of the beer Jason brought me and maintain eye contact. "I'm glad to see you're as excited as I am about my own bar."
Jason watches with undisguised fascination and amusement, eyes darting to me, then Tom, then back to me. He's definitely telling his wife about this later. Tom and I are about to become punch lines.
Tom's mouth twitches. "I see you framed the noise complaint."
"I did. Not sure if I should put it beside Ozzy's signed poster or Mick's."
"I'm flattered you find me that important."
"Nah, just a good reminder to always keep winning."
"You haven't opened yet. You're not winning."
"Are you nervous about my opening?"
"If you didn't have beige walls, maybe."
I don't remember moving, but somehow the distance between us has compressed. I'm now standing before him, so close I can see the stubble along the edge of his jaw.
God, why does he have to be an asshole? Can’t he just let my eyes drink in his sexy as fuck veiny hands?
I'm about to say my parting shot before he turns and goes back inside without another word.
Jason sighs. "He's not actually like that."
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn't, so I take the bait. "Like what?"
"Like that." Jason tips his beer to Tom's retreating back. "You make him nervous."
This is the most infuriating possible thing to say because it explains nothing and implies everything.
Jason finishes his beer and waves. "See you around, neighbor."
Friday arrives with perfect weather and catastrophic timing.
The pastry display case is the problem.
It's beautiful—three-tiered glass, vintage-style brass hardware, what all my dreams are made of. It's also the size of a small car.
The delivery guys are bringing it through my front door right now, and Tom's bar is twenty feet away with a clear line of sight to my entrance.
"Back room," I tell them. "All the way to the back, against the far wall, next to the … just back there, please."
The delivery guys are halfway down the hall when Tom walks through my front door.
Jesus. Just my luck.
My heart rate picks up as though I just got caught doing something I shouldn't. I move instinctively to stand in the hallway with my arms slightly extended, trying to block a line of sight without appearing to block a line of sight.
Tom stops, lifts a thick eyebrow at me, and looks past me at the display case.
"Parking lot's blocked," he says. "I need you to move the truck. You're on my space."
"Give me thirty minutes."
"Too long. I need to leave now."
We stare at each other. I'm very aware that I'm standing in a defensive position in my own hallway, and he's very aware that I'm standing in a defensive position in my own hallway.
His eyes go to the display case again. The delivery guys are trying to move it around the corner, and there is no universe in which this looks like anything other than exactly what it is.
"That's a pastry case. Beth has one," Tom says.
"It's storage."
"It has tiered glass shelves and an electric plug."
"For storing things at different heights. The plug is decorative."
Oh God. I've committed to a position and cannot back down from it even as it collapses in real time around me. Nana would be equal parts proud, impressed, and horrified.
One of the delivery guys says, "Where do you want this again?"
"Back room," I say, not breaking eye contact with Tom. "All the way back."
"You're hiding something," he says.
"I'm storing something."
"In the back room."
"I don't know what you do with your supplies, but that's where storage normally goes."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I absolutely hate how I'm suddenly on the spot. My defenses are up, and I'm all ready to pounce when he nods once. "Move the truck. I need to get through."
I palm my chest twice trying to calm my racing heart. And fail.
Here I am, surrounded by Nana's rock memorabilia and my increasingly elaborate lie and the growing certainty that I cannot sustain it much longer. The effort it takes is not worth it. I’m spending more energy trying to cover up than actually preparing the cafe.
I sit on the floor between the two realities—the lie in front, the truth in back.
I think Nana would have opinions about Tom that I would find inconvenient.
He could very well even be her type.
3
TOM
The phone pings at 5:47 AM and drags me out of what barely counts as sleep. More like the thing I do between locking up Sullivan's and lying in bed pretending the next day isn't already here.
I reach for it without opening my eyes, and the screen lights up my face. One new message. Unknown number. I'm about to delete it when I see the preview.
Took care of your rival problem. You're welcome. XOXO.
My stomach drops. I know exactly one person who would text me at an ungodly hour about problems I didn't ask her to solve, who would sign off with XOXO. Marianne. New number, and she's done something.