Wren:I’m going to bed.
Lili:Fine. Good night, tour guy.
Wren:Night, tourist girl.
Seventeen
Wren
Lili is practically vibrating with excitement when I wheel into the back room the next morning, her energy too big for the space. She’s perched on the edge of the table, her fingers tapping against the cover of her dad’s notebook impatiently until she sees me.
She glances at her watch with exaggerated precision. “Didn’t we say 6:30 a.m.? What is this 6:33 nonsense?”
I don’t answer. She’s still not wearing the McCleave’s polo shirt, but I never expected her to. The blue-and-white checkered dress she has on today is nothing special. Just fabric. Just a pattern. But somehow, on her, it feels like summer itself walking toward me.
I veer around the opposite side of the table. “Who let you in?”
“Your dad. He even thanked me for the new display of Nerissa dolls I put together in the gift shop yesterday.” She gathers up her bag and notebook. “I want it on the record that you are the one who’s late.”
“Some girl was texting me at an absurd hour last night,” I say, locking my wheels and opening my laptop.
She grins, her eyes glinting with amusement. “I bet that girl had a very, very good reason.”
Then she’s dragging her chair—loudly—around to my side of the table, before settling in so close that I can count the faint freckles on her nose.
“You’re in my light,” I mutter, trying to focus on the screen instead of her.
Without missing a beat, she turns on the desk lamp and pushes the notebook toward me, nudging it consistently. “Come on, open it, open it.”
Before I can respond, she leans in again. Her hair brushes my neck, soft and warm, and the faint, sweet scent of strawberries fills the air. She’s too close, and it’s distracting in a way that makes me uncomfortable.
In one sharp motion, I unlock my brakes and wheel away.
“What’s wrong?”
“I need air,” I say, my voice rougher than I want. “And coffee.”
It’s an overreaction. Spending most of the day with her yesterday, then texting late into the night—it blurred the lines in ways I don’t want to admit. I woke up tangled after hazy dreams that weren’t about the girl who’s supposed to be in my head, and now guilt and frustration are running under my skin like an itch I can’t quite scratch.
But that’s on me. No one else. Which is why, when I glance over my shoulder as I reach the door and see the look on her face, I say, “You coming?”
There are quite a few cafés and restaurants surrounding McCleave’s, but when I wheel past Petticoat, Lili points back at it. “Eryn’s not working today?”
She is, but I don’t feel like sitting across a table from both Eryn and Lili, nor do I feel like explaining that.
“The coffee at Handlebar Café is better.” Not a lie, but I still rarely go there, mostly because it’s farther from the museum and wheeling over all the cobblestones drives me nuts. I’m beyond annoyed when we get there, and listening to Lili’s order just makes it worse.
“Good morning. I’d like a large cold cup with three pumps of classic, two pumps of vanilla. Then an inch of caramel drizzle in the bottom, swirled until it’s mixed well, then two half-caf ristretto shots and swirl that, then iced coffee to the line, and a splash of cream to finish, please. Oh, and ice.”
As the poor barista trudges off, Lili turns her smile on me only to have it fall when she sees my expression.
“What was that?”
“It’s warm out. It’s not a crime to order iced coffee in the morning.”
I shake my head slightly, laughing under my breath. “Everything about that order was a crime.”
She looks around the mostly empty café. “There isn’t a line yet. I’d have gone with something simpler if there were other people waiting. And you know what?” she continues. “I like my coffee this way. I’m happy to tip extra for it, so I don’t think the barista minds either.”
