Which is harder than it sounds, because he’s everywhere, and I can still smell his cologne on my skin, drowning out my body spray. I haven’t decided if I’m pissed at him, sad, or just completely spun out. Possibly all three. Either way, calling him now feels like pressing a big red button labeled:Please complicate my life further.
I let out a sharp puff of breath through my lips just as the woman at the counter beams at me. “I’ll take a dozen rainbow cookies,” she chirps.
I force a smile and slide open the case. “Sure thing.”
As I box them up, I glance back at the window. He’s across the street now, just standing there, staring straight at the bakery. Maybe he lives around here.
The door swings open, and Neve strolls in like she didn’t drink half a vineyard with over the weekend. Her sunglasses are perched on her head, not shielding her eyes. Meanwhile, mine feel like they’re bleeding. It’s like she’s not battling the same hangover headache from hell, which honestly feels like a personal attack. It’s aggressive, really. Her hair is brushed to a healthy shine. She’s even wearing lip gloss. I envy her.
“You alive?” she asks, grabbing a hair tie from her wrist and looping her hair into a ponytail like a normal, hydrated human.
“Barely.” My voice scrapes the back of my throat. “My stomach’s still staging a full-blown revolt.”
She winces in sympathy. “Ugh. Same. But I slept, like, nine hours. You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“I feel like I got hit by a truck, then it reversed and hit me again.” I rub my temples. “I don’t even remember the last time I drank that much.”
“Um, the night before last,” she says helpfully. “You definitely know how to spend a weekend in Atlantic City. And I seem to have won a lot of poker chips somehow.”
I groan just as the door chimes again.
Oh, no. Nope. The creeper walks in like it’s Groundhog Day. He heads straight to the counter, wearing that same polite smile. “Hello again,” he says, voice low. “Can I get one of those specialty lattes? The kind with the cinnamon foam?”
I blink and purse my lips. “Sure. Anything else?”
He scans the case. “A coffee cake muffin. And three of those macarons.” His eyes bounce back to mine, but they don’t hold. They flick away, then back again, like he’s trying not to look too long but can’t help himself. He’s nervous.
I nod, internally screaming. Why is he nervous? Do I know him from somewhere? Did I beat him in a poker game once?
As I grab a cup and start the drink, I glance at Neve and try to give her a subtle look. The kind that meanslook at this guy, something’s off, please acknowledge this is weird so I don’t feel like I’m losing my mind.
She narrows her eyes at me like I just grew a second head. Then her expression twists into a mix of panic and confusion. “Oh my God,” she whispers. “Are you having a seizure? Do I need to do something with your tongue?”
“Do something with my tongue? What? No!” I hiss under my breath. “Stop looking atme.Look athim.” I try pointing with my elbow.
She shifts her attention with a dramatic head swivel, then immediately snorts. “Oh, yeah. He’s hot.”
I shoot her a glare as I box up the muffin and place the macarons into a small paper sleeve, my hands just slightly shaky. I can feel him watching me again, like he knows I’m clocking him, like this is some weird game we’re both playing.
Neve leans in, still whispering. “What, did I sleep with him this weekend and forget?”
I don’t answer.
But the way her eyebrows lift tells me my silence might have just sparked a whole new conspiracy in her brain.
We both watch as the guy takes his order and picks a table by the front window. Again. He doesn’t even pull out his phone this time. Just sits there and stares at us.
I lean toward Neve, barely above a whisper. “Get back here. Now.”
She arches a brow, amused, but follows me behind the counter with the lazy grace of someone who definitely got a lot more sleep than I did.
“This is the fifth time he’s passed by today,” I hiss. “And the third time he’s come in to eat something. Who does that?”
Neve squints over my shoulder, then grins. “Maybe he’s just really into your muffins. Can you blame him? Look at you. How do you make that apron look sexy? Out here making hot men smitten with your cinnamon rolls.”
I shoot her a look. “You’re not helping.”
She shrugs, totally unbothered. “I’m just saying, you could be his pastry dealer.”
