His words sting more than they should because I know he’s right.
It isn’t anything I haven’t heard from Dad, Mom, Pope, and most of the rest of the family at some point over the last couple of years especially. But it doesn’t mean I want to discuss it with a man who is still a stranger to me.
Ugly truths are hard to face, and knowing I’m going to spend my life alone because I don’t know how to let anyone else in isn’t something I’m ready to stare down right now.
I grab my gun, shove it back in the holster, then push up to my feet and release a heavy sigh. “I appreciate the picnic, Gage, but what I don’t need is advice on how I live my life.”
“Bishop, wait.” He holds up a hand. “That’s not what I?—”
“It is what you meant. I don’t know who the hell you think you are, showing up out of nowhere, stalking me, whisking me away on this…”—I spread my hands out over the blanket—“whatever this is. Just to offer commentary on something that you know nothing about.”
He opens his mouth to offer another apology or explanation, but I hold up my hand to stop him. If I let him keep going, any lingering good vibes still coursing through me from that orgasm will be long gone.
“I’ll see you around.”
Because something tells me he isn’t going to just walk away like I am right now.
Not until I explicitly ask him to.
And I don’t have that in me when my legs are still trembling and my body throbbing from release.
I pull my phone from my pocket and consider which one of the Hawkes to call to pick me up so that I’m not stuck on the back of that bike with my arms wrapped around that man tonight.
8
TWO DAYS LATER
BISHOP
The whine of the espresso grinder fills the air as Angelina works on the order for the woman standing at the counter. She’s been doing this for so long that she makes drinks without even consciously thinking about it, going through the motions by rote.
Ang says something to the customer that makes her laugh, then pauses and points through the windows, across the street toward Jude’s book store. Probably suggesting the woman make her way over there today, too.
Knowing Ang, she’s already convinced her to buy something there before she even sets foot inside.
It’s easy for her.
Interacting with customers. Offering a quick smile or story. Sending them off with their drinks to Hawke’s Novel Idea so Jude has a steady stream of people wandering in his doors and making purchases there, too.
The Grind continues to be one of the city’s favorite coffee spots because of all her hard work and ability to remain positive despite all the shit that has come down on her the last couple years. But sitting here, tucked into the back corner, my mind can’t help but to drift back to what this place looked like after the bombing.
A black, charred shell.
Utter ruin.
We weren’t sure we should rebuild. Whether Ang would even want to after what had been done. But she never hesitated in her mission to ensure Hawke’s Daily Grind came back better than ever.
It meant starting from scratch. Rebuilding from the foundation up. It meant months and months of hard work and agonizing reminders of what was lost. But through all the sweat and tears, somehow, we did it. She brought The Grind back to life…
Only to have the grand reopening destroyed by Satriano’s thirst for power.
My eyes naturally dart to the front windows, to the sidewalk where several small tables stand for customers to use when the weather cooperates.
It’s a peaceful, pretty spot, and it isn’t unusual to see people sitting with a book from Jude’s and a mug with a piping hot cappuccino, enjoying the atmosphere of the quaint, historic street the Hawkes carefully created.
Yet, all I can see whenever I look out there is the blood splattered across the sidewalk—Uncle Stone, Isaac, and Kennedy lying there in it…
A shiver rolls down my spine, and I clutch my drink tighter in my hands and take a sip, hoping my favorite tea might warm those parts of me that have suddenly gone ice cold.
