Now that it’s been so long, I’m just anxious to be done with him for good.
I follow the county road that I remember following Wes on, but can’t for the life of me recall where I turned off. His long, partially hidden drive was possibly offthatroad, but there might’ve been another turn in there. I wish I’d paid more attention that snowy morning, but I was so focused on driving safely that I don’t remember anything else.
Instead of driving aimlessly, I follow the sign that points to the town center of Lake Savage. It’s got an adorable Main Street. There’s immediately a thrift store on the right and a coffee shop on the left, a tiny library, restaurants, boat rental, two gift shops, a bar, a bookstore, and a general store, whereI turn around to head back to find parking in front of the coffee shop.
The bell jingles when I walk into Killer Beans, and the high-school aged barista looks up from her iPad.
She stares at me curiously as I approach the counter, then sets her device down. The cafe is relatively quiet, with only a small group of giggling girls in the corner staring at one of their phones.
“Can I help you?” the barista asks after waiting for me to say something.
“Yes.” I scan the quaint chalkboard menu that has a surprisingly extensive list of beverage options. “Can I have a mocha?” Might as well treat myself. The girl nods and turns to prepare my drink with the fancy coffee machine.
I check out the display case and spot an entire row of pies. Apple, blueberry, and cherry. I bite back a groan. I can’t go five minutes without thinking of Wes.
What am I doing here? Am I really planning to ask the young barista if she knows someone named Wes who bakes pies? That would make me sound completely unhinged, and even if she knows him—which she probably does since this is a small town and how would someone not remember Wes—she might not want to tell a stranger anything. Then what?
She turns back around and slides my coffee to me. “Anything else?”
“A slice of apple pie, please.” My stomach rumbles at the memory of the pie I finished just yesterday.
I touch my card to the reader, then gather my coffee and pie and head to one of the small round tables. Once settled at the table, I take a bite of pie and groan. Fuck, that’s good. And after tasting from two of his pies, I’d be willing to bet it’s one of Wes’s.
I now have an unhealthy obsession with this man.
Here I am, sitting at a coffee shop in the middle of some deserted lake town with an overpriced coffee that’s probably not even— ohhhhh my god, the mocha is amazing. I take another hot sip and appreciate the perfect balance of espresso and chocolate. Good pie and coffee. Certainly that’s a sufficient excuse to have trekked to Lake Savage.
I open my message app and go to text Lola. I promised myself I’d tell someone next time I went off on a sketchy little adventure. But I hesitate. I’m still pissed at her for inviting Jake to our drinks the other night. I swipe out of the app. Nope. I’m not over it at all.
My finger hovers over the Gone app. I could just message Wes and ask him where he lives, or, like, his last name. And just as I’m about to tap the app, the door jingles with a new customer. I look up and my eyes land first on a man’s heavy boots, perfectly fitted jeans, thick hoodie with a fleece vest on top, broad shoulders and—fuck me.
It’s Wes.
His eyes land on me, and a slight smirk turns up the sides of his mouth. Instead of heading my way, he approaches the barista, who is looking way more interested in him than she was me.
“Hi, Wes,” the barista says with a giant smile.
“Hey Maris. You hear from Colby yet?”
“I got in!” She smiles broadly.
“Nice work!” Wes high-fives Maris, who is practically hopping up and down.
Even the middle school girls in the corner are gawking at Wes. Then they all watch him accept a coffee from Maris and walk directly to my table, taking a seat across from me. The round table now feels ridiculously tiny with his large frame hunkered over it.
“Trying to find me, Calliope?” His voice is smooth and deep, and a shiver runs up my spine. He pulls his black beanie off and runs a hand through dark wavy hair, looking completely unsurprised to see me.
“No,” I huff. “And no one calls me that.”
“Kind of like no one calls me Wesley.”
I shrug. “I guess.” My stomach squeezes. No one’s called me Calliope since my mother passed away.
“If you wanted my address—” He leans forward, close enough that I feel his warmth and smell that woodsy fresh scent. “You could’ve just asked me.”
“That’s not—I mean, I don’t want your address. Why would you think I want your address?” I’m protesting too much, and a short giggle doesn’t help. “Can’t I have a coffee—a really good one, I might add—in this cozy lake town?”
Wes leans back and smirks. Under the table, his knees knock into mine and he adjusts so his legs are outside of mine, still touching. His eyes flit down to my plate, which has half of the slice of apple pie left.
