“What kind of dog do you have?” she asks quickly, clearly desperate to change the subject.
“A Maltese-Yorkie mix. He’s about a year old, full of energy. Steals any socks he can get his paws on. He would eat peanut butter straight from the jar if I let him.”
“Wait, he eats peanut butter straight from the jar?” she asks, eyes wide with fascination. “That’s impressive, but isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not really,” I say, remembering the amount of peanut butter jars I have purchased from Costco. “I trained him to wait for it. Mostly. Sometimes he cheats. He’s stubborn and super manipulative but fiercely loyal.”
“Sounds like a handful. I wish I had a dog. I just don’t have the time right now.”
“Why don’t you have time?” I understand why I’m asking more personable questions but this insatiable need to know more about her is clawing out.
“The microbakery is so much work, I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone another living thing.”
At her confession, I let myself take a closer look, and it hits me how exhausted she appears. Dark circles shadow the corners of her eyes, faint lines crease her forehead, and her shoulders slump just slightly. My chest tightens at the thought that she’s been running on empty this whole time.
My brain latches on to her job. She’s a baker, but I thought Eli said his girlfriend was a photographer. Where would she find the time? Is she lying about being a photographer, maybe to go and meet other guys? Like what she’s trying to do here, have her cake and eat it, too.
Before I can dwell on that thought, her next question catches me off guard.
“Can I meet him?”
I stiffen. “Umm, sure, maybe someday,” I say carefully.
She groans in mock exasperation. “Fine. But that day better come soon, mister broody captor. Jake sounds like such a good boy.”
Her voice drops into a sultry tone when she says good boy. A shiver runs through me, a sudden jolt of awareness I can’t entirely explain, and heat blooms over every inch of my body.
“So,” she says, taking a sip of her cocoa, “you have a sister?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of Ava and what she’s up to in North Carolina, “her name is Ava.”
“Is she older than you?”
“No, she’s five years younger than me.”
“How old are you?” she asks with a hint of curiosity.
“I’m thirty-four. Why? Is that a problem?” I smirk at the way she fidgets with the sleeves of her sweater. I’ve noticed she does that whenever she’s shy or nervous about the situation. I notice a lot of things about her—that I shouldn’t be noticing.
“No. Not a problem. I’m twenty-six so that’s actually perfect. Age-gap trope is my favorite,” she says, winking at me. I swear my heart skips a beat.
“How did you become the designated feminine product fetcher?” she continues, not realizing the effect she has on me.
“Our mom passed away when Ava was born, and she didn’t have a female figure growing up. It was the least I could do. Late-night purchases for tampons and chocolate were my specialty.” I’m not sure why I’m sharing all this information with her, except that I want to. There’s something warm and inviting about her that makes me want to share all my secrets.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft and comforting. No pity in her tone, like others when I’ve shared my past, just genuine compassion.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, trying to keep from swallowing against the tightness in my throat. I look down at my coffee cup, swirling the liquid, keeping my hands busy. “It was a long time ago, and I barely have any memories of her. It’s worse for Ava. She didn’t have any memories growing up.”
She nods slowly. “That must have been tough.”
I glance up, caught by the sincerity in her expression. For a second, the noise of the cafe fades and it’s just us, suspended in this bubble that is all ours.
As if the universe has impeccable comedic timing, my phone lights up with Eli’s name. My stomach drops. I need to act casual, like I’m not sitting here trying to catfish his girlfriend into revealing her true nature so he can move on to a better girl.
Eli’s voice rings through my phone, slightly breathless—like he’s been running a marathon. “Hey, dude, we have to abort the mission. Claire is freaking out that her sister’s missing. I need to meet her at the bookstore before she has a full-on panic attack.”
It takes a full sixty seconds for my brain to compute. His words hit one at a time, each heavier than the last.
