I laugh. I can’t help it. My defenses and my filters and my shields are all down. I feel like the only survivingStar Trekredshirt after Kirk did something categorically foolish and only managed to survive by sheer luck.
And I’m glad no one’s a mind reader so they can’t hear what a goddamn nerd I am.
I realize in my laughter that the guy behind me and the two people he was with are gone, and now I’m alone. I swipe a hand down my face as I look back up at the barista, whose face is drawn and apologetic.
“Sorry about him.”
My brows lift. “You’re sorry?”
She shrugs. “More of a sympathy sorry that people like him exist.”
That’s fair. “It’s okay. I get that a lot on my bad days.”
“Okay, I officially hate all humans on your behalf. Listen, why don’t you go sit down. I’m going to bring you something amazing, and today will be on the house.”
I want to say no because I hate pity special treatment, but I’m also very tired and struggling to find the words to argue. I look up and meet her gaze and jolt when I realize she has familiar eyes with a dark ring around the iris. It takes me a second to remember where I’ve seen them before.
The last time was in the light of a courtyard while North made me feel like I had no business being there. That everything we’d done up to that point was a total mistake. My stomach twists, and I remind myself that this woman is not North. She’s a total stranger who probably doesn’t even know him.
“I’m Leo,” I tell her. I clear my throat and try for a grin.
She smiles back at me. “I’m West.”
“What’s with all the compass names?” When she frowns, I say, “My brother’s named Easton.” I don’t tell her about North. I don’t think I can say his name without being obvious that he’s ruined me.
West laughs. “My name is actually Westin. My mom got knocked up with me at one of those hotels and decided it was a pretty name. When I introduce myself as West, I get fewer questions.”
I manage a smile at her. Or, well, I think I do. She doesn’t seem put off by my expression or my inability to make any real sort of small talk. “I like it. It’s…unique?”
“Thanks,” she laughs, then waves me off. “Go sit. I’ll be there in a second.”
The café is almost entirely empty on a weekday, which means I don’t have a huge audience that saw some guy throw aslur at me before getting himself kicked out. I feel better about the whole thing as I drop into a chair by the window and lean my cane against the glass.
It makes a sound loud enough to draw attention, but I only catch a couple of pairs of eyes before everyone goes back to their business. I bow my head forward, taking deep breaths. My head is so messy from lack of sleep, and every time my mind and body are still, I think about him.
North.
And his hand on me.
The way it felt in my bedroom. The way it felt pinned to a shelf in a supply closet at his work. The forbidden kiss he stole—the kiss I let him take. And the way I would give almost anything for it to happen again. It kills me to admit, even silently to myself, that he took the edge off this aching loneliness for the first time since I realized I was a widower.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about how North seemed to know what I wanted better than I ever could. I don’t want to think about how after all these years of feeling almost dead inside, he woke something up, and now there’s a craving I won’t be able to satiate because no matter how much I’ve been craving him, I can’t give in. Not again.
I’m so fucking screwed.
“Vanilla latte and coffee cake.”
I jolt out of my thoughts as West appears, dropping down into the chair in front of me. She has one plate and two mugs, and as I pull mine toward me, she takes a long sip off hers.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” she says.
“Nope. I’m happy to eat with someone who threatened to walk a man out by the balls when he was being an ableist shit.”
She snorts, then hesitates for a second. “I hope you also know free food doesn’t mean I’m trying to come on to you. I have a boyfriend.”
I blink at her. “Does…that happen a lot? People think you being nice means you want to—do whatever?”
She rolls her eyes and sits back, cradling her mug between both hands. She has glittery painted nails and silver rings on almost all her fingers. “Yes. Men are pigs. No offense.”
