I turned to go in. I’d had enough.
His huge frame came around me. He was justthere, the sheer size of him filling the space between me and the back door.
“Move the hell out of here, or I’ll call the cops.” I said.
Jason had his arms crossed and looking at her with piercing eyes.
“Cops cannot do shit, Camila. You’re up against the cartel. I’ll have to come into your house and protect you, whether you like it or not. If anything, anything happens to you, I’ll…”
The rage in his eyes was real. At whatever he was imagining happening to me — but I didn’t care. Not anymore. I only cared about the space between us and the door.
“Move the fuck away.” I said again.
He stepped aside.
I went back into the café and put my apron on and did not look at him again.
Thirty minutes later, he came in and sat at the corner table by the window.
He walked up to Audrey and ordered a black coffee and a croissant, all the while pinning his eyes on me.
I mouthed “fuck off”.
Audrey glanced at me. I shook my head very slightly, which she correctly interpreted asdon’t ask.
Then he went into the bookshop.
I watched — because I couldn’t entirely not watch — as he moved along the shelves with methodical patience. He took out a book from the third shelf from the bottom: a thick green paperback. He held it up slightly as he carried it to the counter, just enough that I could see the cover clearly.
Securing Your Home in a Week.
I felt my jaw tighten.
He paid Audrey, went back to his table, and opened it.
He sat there for the rest of the day.
Five black coffees. Two croissants. One sandwich. He read the book from cover to cover. Luna, who had apparently decided that her professional obligations of growling at a stranger were over, migrated to a sunny patch beside his chair at noon and allowed him to scratch behind her ears without complaint.
I was furious at Luna.
At four o’clock I hung up my apron, hugged Audrey, and walked out into the afternoon without looking at his table.
He had left ten minutes before me.
Good riddance.
My cottage was a seven-minute walk from the cafe. I walked in the warm late-afternoon light, my sandals on the pavement, the bougainvillea going orange in the sun.
I turned the corner onto my street.
Jason was standing at my front door.
I stopped walking.
He looked at me across the small distance of the lane with his hands at his sides and a pleading expression on his miserable face. There was something steady about him, the steadiness that had been the thing I loved most about him, once upon a time.
“I’m not going inside if you don’t want me to.” he said.
