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)
days straight.
By eight-thirty, I'm almost convinced.
Then the door opens, he walks in, and my heart does something structurally unsound.
He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that matches the shade of his eyes. His hair is slightly damp like he just showered, and he looks exactly the same as yesterday except somehow more, like someone turned up the contrast on a photo.
He sees me immediately, but he doesn't smile, doesn't nod, doesn't acknowledge me beyond that one look.
And yet...
I feel it anyway—that recognition, that weight of attention that makes my pulse jump.
Then he walks to the corner booth and sits down.
I stand frozen at the counter.
"Breathe," Jolie whispers beside me.
I breathe.
"Now walk over there."
"I can't—"
"You can. You're literally a waitress. Walking over to tables is your job."
"Jolie—"
"Go. Before I go instead and tell him you've been obsessing over his coffee routine for a month."
I go.
I walk across the café with a menu I don't need because he knows the menu by heart at this point, and my hands are steady even though my heart is doing that thing again, and when I reach his table, I open my mouth to say—
"Good morning."
His voice stops me. Low and unhurried and carrying that accent that does something to my nervous system I don't have a name for.
"Good morning," I manage.
"Your car." He's not looking at the menu. He's looking at me. "It made it here."
"It did."
"The tires."
"Still attached."
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "For now."
I should say something clever. Something that indicates I'm a competent adult who doesn't need a stranger's opinion on her vehicle maintenance. Instead I ask: "How did you get my number?"
The words just come out. Unplanned. Unfiltered. And I immediately want to take them back because we're in the middle of the café during breakfast rush and this is not the time or place for this conversation.
“I think you already know the answer to that.” A slight smile plays over his lips as he says this, and I have to fight against the urge to smile back...just because.
“Jolie?”
“She offered it out of the blue.”
Aaaargh.
His eyes gleam. “It was a joke, Thea.”
And behind me, I hear Jolie laugh, and...argh.
Like, seriously.
How did I end up being a personal clown for these two?
"I told her I was concerned about your safety."
I find myself glancing over my shoulder at Jolie as he says this, and she blinks innocently at me like she’s saying it’s my fault for falling for her act earlier. She had acted all surprised and impressed when I told her about him showing concern over my tires, and it was just so convincing!
I take a deep breath. Doesn’t matter either way, I tell myself. Whether he asked for my number or Jolie offered it first—none of it matters in the long run. I’m just going to take this one thing at a time, like I’ve learned to do with everything in my life.
“So...” I look back at him politely. “Do you want your usual today? Omelet and black coffee?”
“You remember.”
"It's my job to remember."
“Ah, of course. I stand corrected.”
And yet he says the words so silkily I can feel my cheeks heating up because I just know.
He’s on to me.
He’s always been on to me.
Hasn’t he?
I clear my throat. “So...the usual then?”
“Yes, Thea. The usual please. Thank you.”
His tone has changed again. This time, it’s low and velvety, and it has my heart racing so fast that I can only trust myself to nod before hurrying back to the kitchen.
Breathe, Thea. Breathe.
I put in his order. But...coward that I am, I ask one of my coworkers to take his order to his table, and I don’t look his way the entire time. But I know the moment he leaves...just like he knows that I know.
JOLIE INSISTS ON MEETING with me that night at Good Tidings. It’s another one of those hidden spots in Jackson Hole that only locals know, and the thing I love the most about it is unapologetic choice of interior, with the owner’s obsession with all things nautical.
Jolie sets Wuthering Heights on the small table between us before crossing her arms over her chest as she looks at me. “What was that this morning?”
“He said you offered my number out of the blue,” I blurt out.
“I did not!”
I can tell her indignation is real, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“He also told me he was joking,” I admit. “But I was worried.”
Jolie shakes her head. “I would never do that. I know where to draw the line, I promise.” Her expression turns questioning. “What else did you talk about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I asked if he wanted the usual, and he noticed that I remembered his order, I told him it’s part of my job to do so. That’s it.”
“I did notice you asking Skye to serve him his order.”