I tell myself I’m tired and these are just the consequences of a long week, too many late nights, and a brain that won’t shut up.
If the next closest rink weren’t in downtown Boston, filled with people I don’t knowat all, and an hour commute from my house, I probably would opt for a change of scenery.
But I choose to stick with what I know, even if it doesn’t feel quite as relaxing as it used to.
Honey Bee Café isn’t usually busy on Thursday evenings—they’re more of a morning rush type of place—but tonight, I have to settle for one of the only empty parking spots at the very back of the lot. There’s no light overhead, making it extra freaky, so I jump out, slam my door, beep my locks, and move toward the building at a full run, just hoping I don’t bust my ass on a patch of black ice.
Thankfully, the smell of coffee, cinnamon, and sugar is quick to make it worth it as the bell above the door announces myentrance. Shelly the owner/operator/decadence extraordinaire’s warm welcome doesn’t hurt either.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite customer dragged in from the ether itself.”
I laugh. “It’s been a rough month, yes, but that kind of flattery will get you everywhere—even if you do say it to everyone who comes through the door.”
She grins. “You want your usual, Kylie?”
“You know it.”
“Cappuccino and chocolate croissant warmed!” she calls over her shoulder, toward where Deacon and Billy—her only two employees—are busy making drinks.
I pay and wait patiently, and once both my hot cappuccino and plated croissant are in my hands, I head over to a small table by the window to sit down and enjoy my tasties in peace.
I put my phone facedown on the table—the last thing I need is a virtual distraction—and a too-big bite of chocolatey carbs goes straight into my mouth.
It’s the perfect mix of ooey, gooey, sweet, and warm, with a hint of salt, and my cheeks bulge comically with the effort to chew the amount I bit off.
It’s an annoying little metaphor for life these days and makes me wonder if even entertaining the event with Holland on Friday is smart. I know he’s been waxing poetic about the opportunities it could bring via text the past two days, but at this point, it’s really feeling likejust one more thing. Add in the fact that Rook hates—
“Huh,” a familiar male voice says from beside me. “I guess it reallyisa small world. First Murray’s the other night, and now this…I guess you know all the good places.”
I look up to find Holland standing there with a cup in his hand, sleek puffer jacket open, and a friendly smile on his lips. My whole system jolts at the coincidental timing, and a grating tightness fills the space of my chest. I choke down my bite and take a swig of cappuccino to clear it—which tastes just as good—holding up a polite finger until the pathway to answer is free.
“Oh hey, Holland.” I try to laugh, but even to my own ears, it sounds a little brittle. He doesn’t seem to mind, smiling widely as I remark, “Feeling smaller by the day.”
He gestures to the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I sit for a minute?”
“Sure,” I reply without a reason to decline other thanthat guy Rook who hates you, and I’d rather you didn’t.
Pulling off his jacket and draping it over the back of the chair like he’s preparing to stay awhile, he settles in and wraps both his hands around his own cup.
“I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, Ky, but you look tired. Is it work? Something else? I can be a listening ear if you’d like.”
I snort, both at him and to myself, because I must have reached a new point for myself if the guy I thought was chasing me around to try to get in my pants is actually justconcernedfor me.
My God, Kylie.If this isn’t a wake-up call that I’m pushing myself to burnout, I don’t know what is.
“Hah, yeah. No offense taken,” I say. “I work for an accountant, and this tax season has been…chaos. I’m not surprised I look like the walking dead.”
He winces. “I don’t envy you.”
“What about you?” I ask. “You always look like you’re coming from somewhere important. Is your job serious? Stressful?”
He smiles at that, like it’s a private joke. If I had to guess, he likes the idea that I think he does something important, but to be honest, I’m genuinely too tired for a full psychoanalysis. “Law firm. Boston.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Big one,” he says easily. “Mostly contracts. Talent-adjacent stuff. It can definitely get stressful, but it’s mostly…” He shrugs, a smile creasing the corners of his caramel eyes so much, it’s almost as though they darken. “Fun.”
I tilt my head. “Talent-adjacent? That sounds like an NDA or two are involved.”
