“Sorry, but I…” I trail off at the look he swings up from where I’m touching him—a mix of interest and apprehension. I remove my hand.
“I’d love some time to catch up. To talk, I mean.” I know I have no right to ask this of him, and from the looks of it, he knows it too.
Levi blows out a long breath, shaking his head with a weary smile.
“I probably shouldn’t, but…” His ice blue eyes lock with mine, and incrementally, his grin grows. “Give me your number and I’ll text you sometime.”
I pluck a pen from a nearby cup and write my number on a pad of paper.
“Thanks, Levi.” I can’t think of anything else to say, so I return my yoga mat and force myself not to sprint to the women’s locker room.
Twenty minutes later, I step out of the shower and into a changingstall. I slip on the black dress pants I packed and a long-sleeved black shirt that I tuck into the silver belt at my waist. But the pièce de résistance? My favorite graphic silk bomber jacket. It’s an array of fiery red, orange, and yellow, and it makes me feel like the fierce, independent woman I am.
After throwing on a quick face of makeup and blow drying my straight hair, I rake my things into my duffel bag and jog to the front door.
Levi’s eyes skim over me as I pass the service desk, which is stationed just inside the entrance. I feebly return his smile before I turn to the door.
Snow blankets the busy street with more falling, so I tug on a black beanie and slip my hands into a pair of gloves. Chicago winters arenotto be trifled with.
A couple catches my eye as they stroll by hand-in-hand, and my fingers falter on the door handle. I watch the way the man tugs the woman closer to his side as they walk, the way she laughs up at him, gazing through the snowflakes. A tiny part of me wonders if she’s warmer—happier—there, but then I shake the stupid thought off.
I don’t need anyone.
Snowflakes kiss the tip of my nose as I wait outside Pulse Fitness for the car service I ordered. I check my phone. They’re still a minute away, and it’s freezing out here. I could go back inside to wait, but that would mean sharing more awkward smiles with Levi. Shivering, I pull my silk bomber jacket tighter and curse myself for choosing fashion over warmth.
A text tickles my ribcage, and I pull my phone out of my coat pocket.
UNKNOWN: Hey. I couldn’t wait any longer to tell you how beautiful you are today. Can’t wait to meet up sometime. -Hopefully Yours.
Confusion pinches my brows, and I shiver again. Everyone I know is saved in my phone contacts. Well, noteveryone. My phone fell off the pier last summer, and it’s been acting weird ever since.
Maybe it’s Levi? I peek over my shoulder at him through the window.
His phone is cradled in his palms, forearms resting on the counter. Levi’s smile widens, and he shrugs with a little wave.
I return the sentiment, then reread Levi’s text. He seemed so apprehensive before, but the wolfish grin he’s aiming at me through the window looks like he’s more than interested in meeting up.Hopefullyso. What a weird sign off.
I don’t know how to respond, so I add Levi’s contact info to the unknown number as a worried knot ties itself in my stomach. I don’t want to lead Levi on again, but I do want to properly apologize to him. Did I lay things on too thick? Was I inadvertently flirting? Maybe I shouldn’t have touched his arm.
Before I can spiral any further, a sleek black car with the license plate I’m expecting parks beside the curb.
I slip inside, Levi’s pale eyes following me until we pull away.
three
PRESENT DAY
KATE
Iswipe the snowflakes off my graphic silk bomber jacket as I walk into the lobby of The Chicago Legacy Art Museum. Clicking across the floor in my pointy boots, I attempt to shake off Levi’s weird text. Hunger twists dangerously in my stomach, but I forgot all about stopping at the juice bar at Pulse because of my run in with him.
I sigh, knowing the only option that’s open this early is the coffee bar stationed just inside the museum cafeteria. It’s a bummer they don’t serve anything more substantial than drinks, but hopefully it will be enough to take the edge off.
One of my favorite baristas, Rohan, is working today. His ebony cheeks are plump beneath his trendy tortoiseshell glasses, and I have a hard time believing he’s twenty-one like he claims. His three inch fade on top has been twisted into tight black coils. I catch his eye as I join the few museum staff lined up in front of his station. He grins, waving me to the side as he finishes scribbling a name on a cup.
“Already got yours, babe.” He winks as he blatantly stalls the line, reaching behind the counter. He produces an iced matcha latte with my name already on it. “Maybe now you’ll let me take you out?”
“Still too old for you, Rohan,” I laugh. “Oh, don’t give me that look.”
