Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Ah, Chloe. What can I do for you?”
I take a deep breath. “I wanted to talk to you about the snow-shoveling situation. I noticed that you cleared my walkway, which I appreciate, but Mr. Haven’s wasn’t done. I’m a bit concerned about him.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Shoveling?”
“Yes, that’s right. He’s in his eighties, and I worry about him trying to navigate an unshoveled path. He fell and—”
“Look, Chloe, I can’t be responsible for every tenant’s walkway. Nowhere does it say in your lease that I provide snow removal.”
I feel a flicker of annoyance. The Chloe from this morning might have backed down, but I can feel a bit of Chlo’s fire in my veins.
“I understand that, but Mr. Haven is elderly. It’s a safety issue. And since you did mine—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t provide snow removal. At all.”
I pause, confused. “But . . . my walkway was cleared. In fact, it’s rarely not cleared. I assumed you had done it.”
Mr. Grayson sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “Listen, kid. I don’t know who cleared your walkway, but it wasn’t me or any of my people. Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer or something.”
Mr. Haven had already said as much, and yet my mind races, trying to make sense of this new information.
“I . . . I see,” I stammer. “Well, I apologize for the misunderstanding. But is there any chance you could arrange for Mr. Haven’s walkway to be cleared? I’m really worried about him.”
“Not my problem,” Mr. Grayson grunts. “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you do it yourself?”
Before I can respond, he hangs up. I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my ear, feeling a mix of frustration and bewilderment.
As I lower my phone, a chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold. Who has been shoveling my walkway all this time? And why?
Chapter Four
Jack
Pete’s Cafe isn’t the type of place I’d normally visit. Not until Chloe that is. I’ve always been the type of guy who would make my coffee at home and avoid the overpriced, pretentious coffee shops in my neighborhood that seemed to be popping up on every corner. Even if I do pass it every day on my way to the fire station.
Jesus I’m beginning to sound like my grandpop, god rest his soul.
But Chloe visited this location every Tuesday without fail, often Wednesday, and even Fridays on occasion when she’d go to the Moth to the Flame office. So here I am. The guy who has spent a majority of his adult life as a loner unless you count work, suddenly daydreaming about holding hands over steaming mugs of coffee.
I even caught myself defending Pete’s to my fire captain the other day when I entered with the telltale cup that proved I overspent on something waiting for me in a pot at the station. “It’s not just about the coffee,” I found myself saying. “It’s about the experience, the atmosphere.”
As I push open the heavy wooden door, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans greets me. The cafe is bustling with the morning crowd, a mix of suited professionals and artsy types hunched over their laptops.
I scan the room, my heart rate quickening as I search for Chloe’s familiar face. She’s already in line, and no one is behind her. Not until I take the spot, that is.
She doesn’t know I’m here.
She never does.
But I am. I always am.
I take my place behind her, close enough to catch a whiff of her jasmine perfume. My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my pants, rehearsing the words I’ve practiced a hundred times in my head.
“Hey there,” I want to say. “Fancy seeing you here.” But the words catch in my throat. Thank God because who the hell says the word “fancy”?
I’ve memorized her order by now. A large soy latte with an extra shot of espresso and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She’ll treat herself to one of Pete’s famous blueberry scones which have now become a favorite of mine as well. Those little fuckers are addictive.
Today, she’s all business, tapping away at her phone as she waits her turn. It’s out of her normal, however. She’s not one of those girls who live on their phones twenty-four-seven. Shocking considering what she does for a living. But something I’ve always liked about Chloe is she seems to be an observer—like me. She watches people—like me.
Although she doesn’t stand outside someone’s windows in the dark—like me.
“Next!” calls the barista, and Chloe steps up to place her order.
I listen intently, hoping to catch some detail I might have missed, some clue to who she really is.
“Large soy latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top,” she says, her voice melodic and confident. “And . . . you know what? I’ll take a blueberry scone too. It’s been a long week.”