Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 53212 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 266(@200wpm)___ 213(@250wpm)___ 177(@300wpm)
Hallelujah!
When Martin told me he was leaving early, I considered staying anyway so we wouldn’t fall behind, but with one look at the dark circles under my eyes, he told me to spend one godforsaken night being my age for an hour and then go home and get in bed by eight or he would fire me first thing Friday morning.
I knew the threat was flimsy at best, but far be it for me to look a gift horse in the mouth when everything else in my life has been taking.
My energy, my attention, my guilt.
The universe has been working overtime at draining my cup these days, and without a pitcher and some time, I’ll be empty pretty soon.
Once I ensure all the filings I’ve worked on today have been saved, filed, and backed up three hundred times, I shut down my computer and lock up the office for the night. I waste no time getting to my car—despite nearing April, it’s still cold as balls here in Massachusetts, and I forgot my big coat—and drive straight to my favorite coffee shop near the rink.
A fresh cappuccino and a chocolate croissant sound like the perfect treat before I head to the rink and get on the ice for an hour or so.
I’ll be skating alone again—Alyssa’s already on the road to Connecticut to visit her sick father—and the thought sits heavier than it should. It’s not bad. It’s just…noticeable.
I tell myself I’m tired and these are just the consequences of a long week, too many late nights, and a brain that won’t shut up.
If the next closest rink weren’t in downtown Boston, filled with people I don’t know at all, and an hour commute from my house, I probably would opt for a change of scenery.
But I choose to stick with what I know, even if it doesn’t feel quite as relaxing as it used to.
Honey Bee Café isn’t usually busy on Thursday evenings—they’re more of a morning rush type of place—but tonight, I have to settle for one of the only empty parking spots at the very back of the lot. There’s no light overhead, making it extra freaky, so I jump out, slam my door, beep my locks, and move toward the building at a full run, just hoping I don’t bust my ass on a patch of black ice.
Thankfully, the smell of coffee, cinnamon, and sugar is quick to make it worth it as the bell above the door announces my entrance. Shelly the owner/operator/decadence extraordinaire’s warm welcome doesn’t hurt either.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite customer dragged in from the ether itself.”
I laugh. “It’s been a rough month, yes, but that kind of flattery will get you everywhere—even if you do say it to everyone who comes through the door.”
She grins. “You want your usual, Kylie?”
“You know it.”
“Cappuccino and chocolate croissant warmed!” she calls over her shoulder, toward where Deacon and Billy—her only two employees—are busy making drinks.
I pay and wait patiently, and once both my hot cappuccino and plated croissant are in my hands, I head over to a small table by the window to sit down and enjoy my tasties in peace.
I put my phone facedown on the table—the last thing I need is a virtual distraction—and a too-big bite of chocolatey carbs goes straight into my mouth.
It’s the perfect mix of ooey, gooey, sweet, and warm, with a hint of salt, and my cheeks bulge comically with the effort to chew the amount I bit off.
It’s an annoying little metaphor for life these days and makes me wonder if even entertaining the event with Holland on Friday is smart. I know he’s been waxing poetic about the opportunities it could bring via text the past two days, but at this point, it’s really feeling like just one more thing. Add in the fact that Rook hates—
“Huh,” a familiar male voice says from beside me. “I guess it really is a small world. First Murray’s the other night, and now this…I guess you know all the good places.”
I look up to find Holland standing there with a cup in his hand, sleek puffer jacket open, and a friendly smile on his lips. My whole system jolts at the coincidental timing, and a grating tightness fills the space of my chest. I choke down my bite and take a swig of cappuccino to clear it—which tastes just as good—holding up a polite finger until the pathway to answer is free.
“Oh hey, Holland.” I try to laugh, but even to my own ears, it sounds a little brittle. He doesn’t seem to mind, smiling widely as I remark, “Feeling smaller by the day.”
He gestures to the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”
“Sure,” I reply without a reason to decline other than that guy Rook who hates you, and I’d rather you didn’t.