Her smile dies.
Not slowly. Not gradually. Just—dies. Like someone flipped a switch, and all that brightness, all that confidence, just shuts off.
And in that moment, I understand.
For Kimberly to think of me as competition is not a good thing.
At all.
Kimberly doesn’t even bother to hide her displeasure. She’s used to being seen, but with Santino not even looking her way, it’s as if she’s invisible, and the irony is making me feel like hyperventilating.
I should be the invisible one, not her. I've spent my whole life being invisible. I've made an art of it. And now, standing on this sidewalk with Santino Aleotti's eyes on me and Kimberly's smile dying on her face, I'm suddenly, devastatingly visible.
And I don't know if I want to be.
Santino’s gaze is still holding mine captive, and my head is still reeling at the fact that this time...
It’s not just his name I know. It’s the fact that I also know who he is. And the kind of man that he is. And none of it makes sense. At all.
How can a man like him care enough to follow me home just to make sure my car doesn’t slide into a ditch?
He lifts one hand.
Not a wave. Just—a gesture. An acknowledgment.
I see you.
But somehow...I can’t make myself wave back, and instead I find myself quickly tugging at Jolie’s arm so we can walk away as quickly as possible.
I can feel Kimberly's eyes boring into my back, and it’s still not good.
At all.
Chapter Four
THE NEXT MORNING, Iarrive at the café with a plan.
The plan is simple: be professional. Take his order. Bring his food. Do not think about the way he looked at me across the street yesterday while Kimberly's smile died on her face. Do not think about the fact that his name is Santino Aleotti and he races cars for a living. Do not think about anything except coffee pots and omelet orders and getting through this shift without dropping anything or saying something mortifying.
It's a good plan, but it only lasts for approximately seven minutes.
He walks in at seven-twenty-three (I'm not counting, except I am, I'm always counting), and he goes to the corner booth, and I walk over with the coffee pot and my best customer-service smile.
"Good morning," I say. Professional. Neutral. Perfect.
"Good morning, Thea."
My name in that accent does something to my nervous system that should probably be studied by science.
"Coffee?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Please."
I pour. He watches me pour, which makes my hands slightly unsteady, but I manage not to spill anything, which feels like a victory.
"The omelet today?" I ask.
"Yes. Thank you." He pauses, and I'm about to walk away when he says, "What do you do when you are not working?"
