“Doesn’t explain the past two weeks. Dude needs medication. Or something. I know you love the guy, Cam, but he’s going to implode soon, and I worry we’re all going to be sucked downwithhim.”
Lucas isn’t wrong. I run a hand through my dark locks, trying to come up with a response that doesn’t sound like an excuse. “He’s hurting. I don’t know why, or what triggered it, but he’s dealing with somethingheavy.”
“You served with him. What’shisdeal?”
“Hell if I know. Once I got hurt, Royce joined a new squad. He’s never talked about what happened on his last tour. Never talked about anything after that, really. This isn’t the RoyceIknew.”
I dig into my stack of pancakes, and Lucas reaches for Royce’s untouched plate of bacon to add to his already impressive omelet. As he shakes hot sauce onto his eggs, he glances over at me. “I could say the sameaboutyou.”
“What?” I pause with a forkful of pancakes dripping syrup onto myplate.
“Something about you feels off. And don’t tell me you slept like shit. I can see that. You need some heavy-duty concealer to cover up those suitcases under your eyes. What’swrong?”
The problem with knowing someone for six years? Working with them every day? It’s almost impossible to bullshit them. “Bad dateyesterday.”
“Camilla Maria Delgado, why didn’t you tell me?” He nudges my shoulder before he returns to his massive plateoffood.
“Because of this reaction. We had coffee. Hell, it was barely a date. And given how it ended, there won’t be a repeat performance.” I dredge a forkful of pancake through a lake of maple syrup, wishing I hadn’t dropped that mug, hadn’t run out on West without any explanation. “Leave it alone. I’mmovingon.”
“Nope. You’ve got that ‘I fucked up’ look, and I want to know why.” He rests his elbows on the table, folds his hands, and cradles hischin. “Talk.”
I can’t resist Lucas when he’s in therapist mode. And deep down, I need to tell someone. When I finish recounting the whole morning—and the emails and text messages West sent me afterwards, all of them as yet unanswered—Lucas clucks histongue.
“Honey, you fucked up big time. The poor man mopped up a macchiato, offered to buy you another, and you think he doesn’t like you because you madeamess?”
“Well, when you put it that way…” I shove the half-full plate of pancakes away. “We’ve known each other almost two months, game together most nights. But five minutes sitting across a table from him, and I felt like I was back in high school, going to Denny’s on a first date, all nervous optimism and anticipation. He’s hot. Did I mention that? And he can quoteFirefly. AndDoctorWho.”
I drop my gaze to my lap when I realize I’m gushing, which only makes Lucaschuckle.
“You need to call that man back ASAP.” He rests a hand on his hip and arches a brow. “Don’t make me steal your phone and text himmyself.”
I shake my head. “Dating a man who looks like he belongs on the cover ofMen’s Healthisn’t my speed. The last three guys I dated were vets with serious injuries: a prosthetic arm, a missing leg, and, hell, Efron got burned in a Humvee crash. We matched,youknow?”
Lucas nods, then sighs—a mother hen disappointed in his chick. “Honey, I’ve seen you do things with code that shouldn’t be possible. For all your loner bravado, you’ll do anything for the people you’re close to. And you’re gorgeous.” He waves his hand at me. “All that hair, your perfect skin, those tats… You’re a catch for any man. If I didn’t bat for the other team, I’d be alloveryou.”
I can’t help laughing, and I feel lighter than I have since I ruined the “of-course-it-was-a-date” yesterday morning. “I love you too, Lucas. Sometimes, I think you’re the only one whogetsme.”
“I’ve got your back.” He jabs my arm. “Even when you're being an idiot. Lighten up on yourself, Cam. Have some fun. I doubt your hot marine wanted to propose marriage. Call him back.Apologize.”
Lucas is right. He’s always right—at least where other people’s relationships are concerned. As I sip the last of my bloody mary—sans Tabasco—I stare out over the water. I missed chatting with West last night. And I have only myself toblame.
* * *
Unlike yesterday,Broadcast’s lonely tables beg for patrons this afternoon. A single barista leans against the counter, a book inherhand.
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream? One of my favorites.” I smile, then glance up at the board listing the various coffee offerings. Espressos, lattes, the illustrious macchiato, and the coffee tasting “experience.” I’m used to Siren Coffee’s menu, full of overly sweet drinks: pumpkin pie lattes, s’mores mochas and the like. This place might just grow on me. Assuming I fix thingswithWest.
Barista girl stows the book in her apron, smiling. “What’llyouhave?”
“One macchiato to go, please.Almondmilk.”
She turns to the grinder, pulls a handle four times, and sets the espresso shot to brew. “Good choice. We make the bestintown.”
As the espresso brews, I stare at the table we shared and remember the feel of his fingers on mine, the heat of his skin as he steadied me when I tried to run, and the disappointment on his face as I walked outthedoor.
Her foot taps to the beat of the reggae blasting through the speakers, and as Third World belts out the lyrics to “Now That We Found Love,” I pull out my phone to read West’s messagesagain.
Why didn’t we stick to our online flirting? Something shifted between us when we met, and I don’t know if we can go back to what we were—to the friendship we’d formed over geeky television shows and gaming. My stomach flips when I realize I don’t want to. Sitting across from him, seeing the possibility for something more…somethingreal…
