“Is this your standard operating procedure now?” I shout over him. “Outmaneuver me before the finish line? Was Books for Every Block your trial run? Bad news for you. It’s not going to work this time.”
“Ivy.” He replies sharply. “Let me finish a sentence.”
“You are finished.” I turn, grabbing his bag off the chair. It’s still a mess of twisted straps and half-zipped gear, but I don’t even hesitate. I toss it into the hallway.
“What in God’s name are you doing?” he begs, reaching the doorway.
“Fixing a mistake,” I shoot back, grabbing the rest of his stuff. Camera. Hoodie. Whatever’s his, and hurl it into the hall. “Out!”
“It’s six in the morning—”
“Not my problem.”
“Ivy—”
“I said out.”
“You won’t even listen.”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say, arms crossed. “You’ve shown me what this was. You took credit for my work before, and I let it slide.” I lift my chin, even as my heart cracks. “I’m done being your doormat.”
A shadow crosses his face—guilt, maybe, or just the light playing tricks.Who cares.
He exits, and I slam the door, rattling the walls.
Heavy silence fills the room.
My hands ball into fists so tight my knuckles sting. Because if I let go, I’ll throw that door open and pull him back in here. Not to yell at him(though God, I want to), but to listen. To hear whatever pretty lie he’ll feed me, whatever bullshit excuse he’ll spin.
And the worst part?
I might actually let myself believe it.
***
The Meet Cute Café & Tea House is an all-out assault on the senses. Mint-green wainscoting, aggressive floral wallpaper, the scent of sugar cookies fighting something citrusy, while espresso machines hiss and sputter in the background. A tiny vase of baby’s breath occupies my table. It’s innocent and unviolated—two things that no longer apply to my deflowered iPad.
None of it compels me to keep sipping my green smoothie, but I do anyway. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
My banana nut muffin sits on its fancy little porcelain plate, untouched because it knows I only bought it in a desperate attempt to bribe the swamp beast currently doing laps in my stomach.
I am a professional. I do not fall apart in hotel cafés. Especially not over undeserving men.
My finger punches at the screen like I’m poking him in the eye.
Infatuated.What a calculated, choice word. Absolute horseshit.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a cold case. Does the body have a name?”
I glance up.
Sienna Alvarez slides into the chair across from me the way she does everything—no hesitation. No permission. All presence.
And pancakes.
A stack so tall it needs structural support. Scrambled eggs. A cluster of bacon. Maple syrup pooling at the base, a catastrophic failure in drainage management.
She picks up her fork.
