“One crispy Diet Coke for my number one girl.” Savannah sets the drink on the table in front of Chloe.
“Sav,” she says, looking up at her friend. “It’s nine in the morning.”
“Is it?” Savannah looks down at her naked wrist. “God, I’ve been here so long it feels like it’s afternoon.”
“You’ve been here for three hours.” She tries to sound serious but a little laugh slips out at the end.
Savannah rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath and then her eyes land on me. “Hey, Hall. Where's Noah?” She steps forward, tilting her head, trying to peek around me.
“Oh, he said to tell you he’ll be a little late. He’s got some kind of rash that he’s gotta get looked at.” I wave a hand around my crotch. “South of the border problems.”
She gives me one of her venomous closed-mouth smiles and leans in close enough that no one else can hear her when she says, “I was just down there this morning. There’s nothing wrong with hissouth of the border.” She whips her towel at me but I twist in time that she only tips my elbow.
I laugh at her bad aim when she turns and heads back behind the counter.
My smile only widens as I turn my attention back to Chloe. Her arms are crossed in front of her computer, and she’s looking at me like she can’t decide if she’s happy or surprised to see me.
“Hey.”
“What are you doing here?”
I pull the seat out across from her. “Did you hit yourselfwith one of these bricks?” I ask, tapping my knuckles on one of her textbooks. “We had plans, remember?”
“I—yeah, I remember. I just thought you were saying that because Nathan was standing there, though.”
“Nah, Chlo. I don’t give a shit about that guy.” And it’s true, to an extent. I never once thought twice about Nathan Quant until I learned about the stunts he’s been pulling with Chloe and the fuck ass way he treats her. So, while I don’t give a shit about him, I do give a shit about his effect on her.
“What are you working on?” I tilt my chin in the direction of her computer, changing the subject.
She closes the screen. “It’s nothing. It’s just my manuscript.” She waves a flippant hand.
Friday night when she told me she was working on a manuscript, I went home and looked it up. I’m not an idiot, I know the textbook definition of what a manuscript is, but I wanted to make sure her definition and Google’s were the same.
“So, you’re writing a book?”
“That’s what it’s supposed to be.”
“What’s it about?”
“You wouldn’t be interested.”
I lean forward, placing my forearms on the table between us. “It’s borderline scary how interested I am.”
Her movements stop, and her green eyes shine like literal emeralds as she studies me. Likely, trying to figure out my motives, or to see if I’m bullshitting her. I deliberately play with the gum in my mouth around a smile, silently telling her,go on, babe, get your fill.
The apples of her full cheeks begin to blush and she must feel it because she clears her throat, looks away, and slides her laptop into her bag. “It’s a romance book.”
“Consider my interest piqued,” I say, lifting a brow.
“Hate to break it to you, but you should lower yourexpectations. It’s not anything to write home about. It’s just something I do in my spare time.”
“Is that your major, then? This is the big grand plan?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I mean, yes, I’ve thought about it, once. It’s just—” She pulls at her hair and wraps the blue scrunchie she always has on her wrist around it, and I can tell she’s getting flustered. “It always gets put on the back burner, and it's just not in the cards for me right now.”
