"I know." He reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "It’s one of my favorite things about you."
"That I'm neurotic?"
"That you are you." His hand lingers on my face. "All of you. The counting and the coffee stains and the way you go invisible when you are scared." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "All of it. Every single part."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know how to respond when someone looks at me like that—like all my broken pieces are exactly what they want.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Seven-twenty-three."
"I'll be there."
"And you will not hide from me?"
"I'll try not to."
"Good." He leans down, kisses me once more—quick and hard and full of promise. "Goodnight, Thea."
"Goodnight, Santino."
I watch him walk away. Watch until he rounds the corner and disappears into the snow and the dark. Then I let myself into my building on legs that still feel uncertain, still feel like they might give out at any moment.
Chapter Eight
THE NEXT MORNING, Iarrive at the café thirty minutes early.
I tell myself it's because I need to prep the espresso machine. That Gail asked me to restock the napkins. That I have a lot to do before we open.
I tell myself it has nothing to do with the fact that Santino arrives at seven-twenty-three, and I need those thirty minutes to build my armor back up. To remember how to be professional. To figure out how to look at him without remembering the way his hand felt under my shirt, the way his mouth tasted, the way he looked at me like I was the answer to a
question he'd been asking his whole life.
Thirty minutes.
I can do this.
I count sugar packets (forty-seven). Wipe down tables that are already clean. Rearrange the menu cards in their holders even though they don't need rearranging.
Seven-fifteen.
My hands are shaking.
It's fine,I tell myself. It was one kiss. People kiss all the time. It didn't mean — it didn't have to mean — and I'm not going to be that girl. The girl who reads an entire novel into a single
chapter. The girl who builds a castle out of one brick and then cries when it falls. I'm not. I refuse.
Seven-twenty.
Jolie arrives, takes one look at me, and sets downWuthering Heightson the counter. “Everything okay?”
“Uh huh.”
"You're wearing makeup though.”
“S-So?”
She starts to smile, and I start to blush. But when she opens her mouth, I shoot her a warning look.
“Don’t.”
