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I save her number in my phone and text her back.

Me: ​​Sounds like a plan.​​

Teeny: ​​P.S. You better read Fourth Wing. You’ll love it.​​

Me: ​​You had me at dragons and sex.​​

Teeny: ​​Hey, I’m a very serious girl when it comes to books.​​

Me: ​​I’ll try to remember that.​​

As I head back to my condo, the morning air feels lighter than it did an hour ago. When I pass by a storefront and see my reflection in the glass, I realize I’m smiling like a fucking jack-o’-lantern.

Obviously, it’s only because I’ve finally gotten inside Valentina Cordone’s world. And maybe a little bit because Teeny’s world is getting inside me.

18

Valentina

Sunday, October 17

2:45 p.m.

The Hole Story is closed on Sundays, which means I’m free to scrub ovens, restock cream cheese, and—today, specifically—host a thank-you bagel date with the guy who jumped off an eighteenth-story balcony for me.

I’m terrified.

Not because of helicopters or shattered glass balconies or impressively avoidant phone calls with my father this morning while he pecked at every one of my buttons—you need to stop working, go to the Sounds game with Leonidas, move home where your mother can feed you more—and I pretended my condo isn’t pulverized.

But because I can’t remember the last time I wanted to date someone.

And as much as I tried to deny it in a one-on-one conversation with myself in my bathroom mirror while I did a full beat of makeup, I find myself wanting to date Shane.

In my defense, the man literally saved me mid–helicopter apocalypse and brought me industrial-grade trash bags like they were a bouquet of flowers. If anything, I’m bound by the bylaws of straight womandom to at least swoon, am I not?

When I catch myself watching the clock like a hawk—it’s 2:55 p.m.—and wiping down the same counter for the third time, I start to wonder if I need saving again—from my raging crush.

Ugh. If the confident, self-assured, sworn-single me of two weeks ago could only see the frazzled mess I’ve made of her physical embodiment now.

At 2:56 p.m., I manage to move over to a different counter, but because I’m using hyperfixation as a coping mechanism, I’m still wiping it two minutes later.

He’s just a man, Teeny. He’s a handsome man who saved you from dying and held you all night long while you were losing your shit, but it’s all the same twig and berries, right? XY chromosomes. Adam’s apples. Perfectly even hormones and consistently coin-size nipples.

No big deal, right? Right.

The clock strikes three, and right on cue, Shane appears at the door with a smile on his face. He’s wearing dark jeans and a white Henley with rolled sleeves and holding two coffees in his hands.

I move out from behind the counter to unlock the door and let him in.

“You remember I sell coffee here, too, right?” I tease, and he just grins and hands me one.

“Yes, but in order to be the one bestowing the gift of caffeine upon you, rather than the other way around, I had to patronize one of your competitors. I hope you don’t mind. And if you hate it, we can make more. You can never have too many coffees.”

“Well, when you put it that way, it sounds very sweet,” I say through a soft laugh. “So, thank you. I myself patronize Dunn Coffee from time to time, and everything they make is heavenly, so I’m sure whatever you got will be great.”

I turn toward the counter and blow out a shaky breath, wondering if he can tell how nervous I suddenly feel. It’s not like there’s a fifty-question final exam at the end of this, and yet, I am sweating from every orifice possible.

The shop is quiet today. There’s no Sunnie. No Cher. Just me, the sunlight slanting through the window, and Shane Maddox.