“That would be wonderful,” she said, and he grinned and promised to set some aside. He gave away so many second-hand books that it made me wonder how he even made money.
She hurried off just as the door banged open to let in a group of teens in hockey jerseys, their laughter and chatter filling the space. Kai Buchanan was with them, Lucas Haynes too, both managing to corral the noisy pack toward a corner table at the far side of the diner. Inoticed Jamie was with them, and he waved, and I gave him a nod.Please don’t come over when I’m away from work.
God, my head hurt again—the same throb that had started this morning, sharper now, proof that fatigue and stress had been building toward something worse.
So much for pancakes in peace. If it wasn’t hockey groups breaking the quiet, it was Wesley, who was already rambling on about something I was half listening to and trying to tune in to.
“… so, I said yes.” Wesley leaned in, eyes sparkling. “And you know what else, Hunter? Traditional national costumes from Norway—but I’m talking three hundred years ago. Picture it! You in one of those long dark coats with silver clasps, a wool vest, and high boots, all stern professor turned Nordic prince. And me, flowing linen shirt, embroidered vest, breeches tucked into boots, maybe even a fur-trimmed cape if I can borrow one from the theater group.” His hands flew as he painted the vision. “The two of us standing together at our stop—like we’ve walked straight out of some ancient saga.”
I was so damn tired, head pounding, nerves frayed, and I couldn’t even think of an answer. I hadn’t had a migraine since I left my old college, but maybe overstimulation was how they started.
I forked up another bite of pancake, chewingslowly, wincing as Wesley kept right on chattering about costumes, decorations, and god knew what else. My head was already too full—the hockey kids laughing and shouting, Wesley’s endless monologue, my future plans dangling by a thread, my old life in ruins. Two freaking years hiding in a coffee shop I hated, pretending this was enough. It pressed on me until my chest felt tight, and then Molly arrived with the exact same order for Wesley that I’d already had delivered.
“Is this deliberate?” I snapped at him and Molly. “Are you pranking me?”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I shoved too much money onto the table, stood abruptly, and fumbled with my coat in furious, uncoordinated motions. Facing my nemesis head-on, I bit out, “You can have the damn pie,” my voice flat with exhaustion, a band of pain tightening from temple to temple.
Then I walked out, leaving the warmth and noise behind me.
Chapter 5
Wesley
I didn’t quite knowwhat to make of Hunter’s exit, but I’d seen the pain in his expression and the exasperation in his jerky movements. I was too much.
I’m always too much.
Molly came to the table and offered quietly, “I can pack the pie.”
Inspiration hit me. “Yes, please.” With the pie tucked into a take-out box, I bundled up and hurried outside. I’d catch him and give him the pie and not ask asinglequestion or say asinglething. Assuming he’d probably gone straight home, I headed that way—only to spot him sooner, standing under the Wishing Tree, staring at its bare branches. The wishes wouldn’t appear until a few days before Thanksgiving, though I’d seen a few fluttering there in the summer, metallic ribbons catching the sunlight.
He looked lonely and sad, and I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to step closer, to offer something—comfort, warmth, anything—but another part of me screamed to retreat, to save him from having to listen to my rambling. I hovered, torn between reaching out and walking away. He sighed, muttered something under his breath, and I crossed over before he could notice me wavering, shoved the box at him.
“Your pie”
He took it from me, his expression unreadable—surprise flickering in his eyes. “Wes?”
“I’m sorry for sitting with you and talking at you. I know I’m too much,” I said, and before he could answer, I spun on my heel.
“Wait, Wes,” he called after me. “It’s on me. Shit. I walked out on you.”
Sadness pricked at me, but I forced a smile. “Of course you did, I know I can be too much. My nanny used to tell me this story when I was little, about how I ate too many snacks, she said it would attract the ghosts that lived in the pantry, and the ghosts would make me talk too much.” I shrugged, letting the words trail off into the cold night air. “I just wanted to sit with her, but she didn’t know that, and hey, I like ghosts.” There I went, talking too much again. “She was right, see?”
He huffed. “You really believe that?”
I smiled. “Of course not. I’m creative and Ilove talking and telling stories, but y’know, my family wasn’t big on creative sons. Nor gay ones, to be exact. Gayandcreative meant I was the black sheep of the family.”
“Isn’t the black sheep the one who causes trouble?”
I couldn’t help but chuckle. “My father had built his career on being the perfect conservative family man. Me getting caught kissing a boy in school meant I was the black sheep for real.”
“Shit. That sucks.”
“It is what it is.”
“I’m sorry they weren’t supportive.”
