Page 87 of Still Missing You

I glance over my shoulder and pretend I don’t know what he’s talking about... or that he’s right. “Doing what?”

“Staring at the door like it personally offended you.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in. “It’s kind of pathetic.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

He grins faintly, though there’s still tension around the edges of his mouth that wasn’t there before Coldwater.

Matthew’s better, mostly physically recovered, but still too thin. Better, but not all the way healed. He’s watchful, moves slower some days, and startles at loud noises. He admits he struggles at night and doesn’t sleep much sometimes.

But he’s here, working at the café and living in the apartment upstairs. I wondered if he would want either of those things, after everything that happened, but once he’d left the hospital, he admitted he didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Not great, but healing. He’s been a hell of a lot lighter since learning Nancy Ellis was denied bail and would stay behind bars until her trial next year.

Matthew shrugs, turning back to the pastries at the same time the bell over the door chimes. This time, I don’t even try to play it cool. I look up immediately as Hunter steps inside. Relief and want hit me at the same time when his gaze locks with mine. The rest of the café disappears.

I move before I can stop myself, coming around the counter and ignoring the amused looks from a couple of regulars. I cross the space between us.

“Hey—” he starts.

I don’t let him finish. I grab the lapels of his pea coat and pull him in, kissing him like I’ve been waiting all day, which, if I’m being honest, I have been.

He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, then melts into the kiss, one hand coming up to cup the back of my neck. For a second, it’s just us. No café. No past. No ghosts. Just this moment.

When I finally pull back, he’s smiling at me.

“Miss me?” he asks.

I snort softly. “A little.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, a lot.”

He laughs, the sound warm and easy, and he leans in to press a quick kiss to my forehead.

“How was work?” I ask.

“Busy,” he says. “Signed the contract. Three new inquiries, one follow-up, and a guy who thinks his neighbor is spying on him through his toaster.”

I blink. “Through his toaster?”

“Don’t ask.”

I grin. “Oh, I’m asking.”

“Later,” he says smiling. “When I’ve had coffee.”

“Say no more.”

I step back, reluctantly and head behind the counter to make him a drink. He shrugs off his coat and settles onto one of the stools at the counter, watching me with that steady, familiar gaze that still does ridiculous things to my chest.

“You okay?” he asks.

I glance up. “Yeah. Why?”