When she shrugs, I have my answer. Someone who saw it must have told her. Probably more thanonesomeone, too, knowing Rafael.
“Anyway. He slept over because… I guess I was a little scared about being in the house alone after what happened to Mallory.”
Vanessa’s shoulders dip. “Oh, Scarlett. You should have called me. I’m a cop. I can protect you.”
“Hello?” Paige waves an obnoxious hand in front of her face. “You were protectingme, remember? And besides, she doesn’t need you. She has a hunky bad boy sleeping in her bed.”
She chuckles even before finishing the sentence, and I can’t help but join in. He really is a hunky bad boy.
“God, Paige,” Vanessa says as she stands, her chair scraping against the floor. “Can you ever not beon? Give people a break?” With silence falling around us like cold snow, she steps back. “My shift’s about to start. I’ll see you later. Bye, Scarlett.”
“Y-yeah. Bye, Vanessa.”
Hurt flashes across Paige’s face as she watches her walk away. Once the door closes, my eyes are on her. “What the hell was that?”
She shrugs, fidgeting with a lock of auburn hair. “Uh, nothing. We’re wound up a little tight. You know, house hunting.”
Right. I can imagine that’d be stressful, especially with someone like Paige, who never settles for anything less than what she wants. “Still, she shouldn’t say stuff like that.” I take her hand on the table. “You’re never too much, you hear me?”
“Oh, Iamsometimes.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the exact right amount of yourself, and if someone doesn’t see that, thentheyare not enough.”
She squeezes my hand. “Thank you. Now, please, tell me about your night. I could use a chance to live vicariously through you.”
I throw myself into a vivid description of last night’s events, starting with the annotated book and going all the way to thismorning, when he woke me up with soft cuddles to my back at eight a.m., then made me breakfast while I was in the shower.
“Scarlett, I’msohappy for you.” Her eyes shimmer as if she’s holding back tears. “And proud—that, too.”
“I even”—I shrug, picking apart a napkin discarded on the table—“wrote an episode this morning.”
“ForPassion & Pages?”
When I nod, Paige squeals. “See? I told you! All you needed was someone to make you experience romance. Longing. Love.”
“Whoa,” I say, my mind instantly spinning. Can someone be allergic to a concept? “I wouldn’t go that far. But I will admit I sat down at my desk this morning, and it just… flowed. It’s like… like seeing romance through his eyes made me understand it better. There was this bit,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my sleeve, “where the heroine is too afraid to tell the hero she loves him because she thinks she’s not enough for him. She convinces herself that leaving is the right thing to do, because she’s protecting him, right? But then he shows up at the train station, and he doesn’t convince her to stay. He just tells her he’ll be waiting if she ever comes back.”
Paige’s eyes soften, and she clasps her hands together dramatically. “The ‘run to the airport.’ A classic.”
“Or a cliché. Anyway, I didn’t get it at first. Why would anyone wait for someone who’s walking away? But Rafael wrote something about how love is about understanding someone’s fears and giving them the space to grow. And for the first time, it just… clicked.”
“Is that how he makes you feel?” Paige asks.
“Sometimes,” I admit. “And other times, like last night, he pushesme out of my comfort zone—always just enough to make me feel brave, not overwhelmed.”
Paige sighs dramatically, like she’s stepped right out of a Jane Austen novel. “Scarlett Moore, you’re turning into a romantic. Next thing you know, you’ll be crying at wedding vows.”
I roll my eyes, but a small, genuine smile tugs at my lips. “Let’s wait for Celeste’s feedback before you plan my initiation ceremony.”
“She’s going to love it,” Paige says, holding her hand up to ask for the check. “Because you did.”
I push open the door of The Oak as Paige waves goodbye, then rushes away for the event she’s planning this weekend. The midday sun beating down on the pavement is almost blinding after the dim interior. Just as I reach the sidewalk, a familiar voice calls out, “Scarlett!”
I turn to see Quentin leaning against the side of the building, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. His buzz-cut hair sticks up a little at the crown, and his gaze is just as dazed as I remember, brown eyes squinting a bit in the sun.
“Hey,” I say, stopping but not stepping closer. Since our breakup, we’ve politely waved at each other, even asked “How’s it going?” a couple of times, but nothing more than that. This town’s too small to avoid your exes, but we’ve kept our distance.
So what’s up now?
