Not want to meet me there. Not want to stop by.
With me. Like he wanted me by his side. I nearly dropped a scoop of mint chocolate chip because of that thought.
Rome was twenty-nine. Tattooed. Built like trouble.
And I was... Me. Thirty-six. Divorced. Curvy. Fat if we’re going to get technical here.
A woman who still had moments where she looked in the mirror and heard Bruce’s voice reminding her she wasn’t enough.
I hated that I still heard him.
Hated it.
I wiped down the counter for the third time in an hour.
Rome didn’t want me.
Right?
I frowned.
The answer should’ve been easy.
At four o’clock, I saw him.
His motorcycle rolled into the lot across the street, the engine rumbling low as he parked in front of Bad Habit.
I was cleaning tables near the windows and I pretended not to look. Though I failed immediately.
Rome swung off the bike and pulled off his helmet. He was in his typical attire of black T-shirt, black jeans, and black boots. His dark hair pushed back from his face and as usual looked like trouble in human form.
He also looked annoyed.
Not angry, just irritated.
He unlocked the shop and disappeared inside.
I stood there with a rag in my hand, and my stomach fluttered. “Down, girl,” I muttered to myself.
The older woman sitting near the window looked up. “Pardon?”
“Nothing.” I practically ran back behind the counter and tried to not look toward Bad Habit.
The message sat unanswered all day. Every time I checked my phone, there it was. Every time I started typing a response, I deleted it.
What if he was joking?
What if I said yes and he realized he’d made a mistake?
What if… I stopped myself. I was spiraling, again and I hated spiraling.
By closing time, I was exhausted from my own thoughts.
I locked the register, wiped down the counters, and flipped the chairs onto the tables.
The sky outside had turned that dusky blue that always made Main Street feel smaller.
I walked toward the front door to lock it, then froze.
