“Someone asking about my paintings?” The question feels all wrong. Totally full of myself and full of bullshit. Except why else would someone be asking around for me?
Unless…
Fuck.
Mitchel nods slowly, and I realize one of his dreads is loose and hanging halfway out of the ponytail he’s tied them back in. Makes my skin itch and crawl, and if it wouldn’t be weird as fuck, I’d fix it for him. “Maybe. Said he’d be back today when I told him you’d be working. Didn’t get his name.”
“What did he look like?”
Mitchel and Reagan exchange a glance. Probably ‘cause I’ve gotta be looking like they’re telling me they’ve seen a damn ghost. Maybe they have.
“Tallish guy. Dark brown hair. Wore it short and slicked over to the side.”
“Waaaytoo much gel.” Reagan wrinkles her nose.
The bottom has to have just dropped out of my stomach, ‘cause it feels like it’s just hit the fucking floor.
“Sound familiar?”
I shake my head, ‘cause what the fuck else am I supposed to do?
Could be anyone.
Just someone who wants to ask me about my paintings. Something good.
Except I fuckingknowit’s not.
“He gave me the creeps,” Reagan mutters, and the hairs along the back of my neck lift.
There’s a crumb on the counter by the register.
Someone didn’t line up their chair straight when theypushed it in at a table in the back.
My fingers itch to fix Mitchel’s dread.
Fuck.
“You okay, Tristan?” Reagan touches my arm, and I jump.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
Grab a rag. Sweep the counter clean.
Breathe.
Because fucking Josh is in fuckingTucson. Fifteen fucking hundred miles away. Doesn’t have a clue where I am. Not that I’m in Seattle, and sure as hell not where I work.
Whoever that guy was that was asking about me, itwasn’thim.
Just a goddamn coincidence, ‘cause there’s just no way the world’s that small or that fucking cruel.
And those motherfucking tea bags are all crooked again.
“You sure you’re okay, Tristan?” Reagan’s eyes are unusually soft as she tucks her folded apron into her bag.
Nod.
Look away.
