Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
I study him in the afternoon light, seeing past his cultivated bad-boy image. Past the rebellion and charm and perfect facade.
Bel is right; there is more to Lee than what most think.
“Tomorrow, then,” I say, finally unlocking my car. “Coffee. Talk. Discussion of … arrangements.”
“Tomorrow.” He straightens but doesn’t move closer. “I’ll be there. With sanitizer and sealed cups.”
The fact that he remembers these details shouldn’t make me feel better about this decision.
But it does.
“Thank you,” I say as I slide into my car. “For today. For understanding. For …” I gesture vaguely, encompassing everything I can’t put into words.
His gentle smile is real. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for, right?”
NINE
salem
I’m technically ten minutes early, but I can’t help but feel I’m late. Maybe because I’ve been sitting in my car for a while watching Lee perform the most unexpected show of my life.
He arrived a few minutes after I did. I know because I counted every second until he got out of his Jeep. I expected him to head straight inside The Daily Grind, order a coffee, and wait, but that’s not what he did. The backpack he brought in with him makes more sense now. How the heck would he have brought all the cleaning supplies in without getting a bunch of strange looks? And he wouldn’t need to bring books or anything.
I’ve been watching him systematically sanitize what I assume is meant to be my seat and all surrounding areas since. One, two, three wipes across the table’s surface. The chair gets the same treatment. Even the napkin holder hasn’t escaped his attention.
I clench my hands in their fresh gloves as he arranges sealed creamer cups in a perfect line. After a minute, he rearranges them, then does it a third time. The morning sun catches on his dark brown hair as he leans down to inspect his work, mumbling something to himself that makes him shake his head and start over.
He’s actually counting.
Like me.
Something warm and dangerous unfurls in my chest as he disappears from my sight inside the windows, returning with what looks like sealed water bottles and individually wrapped straws. He sets them down, steps back, surveys the arrangement, then adjusts one bottle slightly.
“What are you doing?” I whisper to my empty car, directed at him, but I already know.
He’s making it safe. Making it perfect.
Making it mine.
My phone buzzes, shattering the moment.
Noah: You’re still sitting in the parking lot, aren’t you?
Me: Shut up.
I hate how obvious I am.
Noah: I know you too well. Just wanted to know if I needed to call in the fake emergency yet or not.
Me: Crisis averted. I’m fine. He’s just …
Noah: Weird? Triggering? Reckless?
Me: No. He’s … careful.
I hit send on the message and watch through the window as Lee runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that makes all the effort he put into styling it a waste. A moment later, he looks down, checking his phone once more before he returns to wiping down the table again. My phone vibrates once, twice, three times. After the third time, I look back down at the screen.
Noah: Careful? What does that mean?
Noah: Are you still there?
Noah: Faking appendicitis if I don’t hear from you in five.
All I can do is smile.
Me: I’m still here. Sorry I zoned out. He’s cleaning everything.
Noah: What?
Me: Like I would. Three times.
Noah: Huh? Maybe he’s crazy, too.
Me: Maybe we all are.
My phone screen lights up again, but I ignore it. Probably Noah with another check-in, or Mom wondering why I needed three new pairs of gloves this morning, or Dr. Martinez responding to my panicked mid-dawn text message. We have an appointment coming up, but I still needed … I don’t know … validation?
My attention is entirely on Lee. He’s fidgeting now, unable to keep still—leg bouncing, fingers drumming, constantly checking his phone. His eyes drift to my carefully prepared seat every few seconds, adjusting things minutely.
The contrast strikes me: his chaotic energy versus his precise attention to my needs. It’s like he’s containing his own nature to make space for mine. No one outside of my own family does that for me. No one …
“Fuck it,” I whisper, reaching for my door handle.
The leather squeaks against my nitrile gloves, and I head for the door. The bell above chimes as I enter, and I swear every molecule of air shifts inside me.
Exits (three—front door, kitchen, emergency).
People (seven customers, two baristas).
Surfaces to avoid (basically everything).
And one man, looking up at me like I’m something interesting and terrifying all at once.
“You came.” His voice is soft, and he remains seated instead of jumping out of his chair to greet me. Everything about his posture screams well-constructed restraint, minus his leg, which continues to bounce under the table like he’s containing lightning.