Total pages in book: 180
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 176012 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 880(@200wpm)___ 704(@250wpm)___ 587(@300wpm)
I jog across the street, around the side, and into the alley. Coming up on the delivery door, I see a bicycle locked to a drainage pipe. I knock on the door.
Unfortunately, I’d lied to Lance. I had been looking. Before I knew who she was and saw her running around the track.
And I’d really liked looking.
She was staring at me, continually catching my eye every time I turned her way. I’m so fucking stupid. She was looking because she recognized me. I was looking because…
“Who is it?” a light voice calls through the door, sounding just a little timid.
Yeah, a young woman working in here alone in a deserted downtown? She doesn’t want mysterious knocks on the door in the middle of the night.
“Quinn, it’s Lucas.”
She doesn’t answer, and the door doesn’t open.
A few seconds pass, and I lean in closer, amused. “Lucas Morrow,” I clarify.
Another second passes and still nothing.
I open my mouth to say something else, but I have no idea what.
Then the lock clicks and the door swings wide. Quinn stands there, holding the door handle. “Sorry,” she says, sounding out of breath as she slips a hand towel into her back pocket. “I was…yeah.”
She shakes it off, peering up at me from under the bill of my cap. My smile falters, lost for a moment in the lamplight reflecting on her lips. I should’ve recognized her last night. She has the same brown eyes. Everyone always grouped her in with her mom and Jared, and liked to describe the shade as chocolate, but Quinn’s were different. They held a hint of gold, like chestnuts.
And she seemed to have the same inability to hold people’s gazes for longer than three seconds. Or maybe it is just mine.
She takes in my clothes. “Exercising again?”
“Jet lag.” I walk in as she holds the door open for me. “Saw your lights on and thought I’d check out your place.”
I stop just inside the door, facing her as she locks it again.
“Before you leave, you mean?” she asks as if finishing my sentence.
Something about her tone is curt. I look down, watching her lick her lips as she pulls the door a few more times just to make sure it’s secure.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask.
I grin a little, teasing, but her wide eyes just gaze up. Not really hurt or challenging, but…she doesn’t answer me, either.
She wears jean shorts and a pink and white Raglan T-shirt with an apron around her waist. A braid hangs over the front of her right shoulder, my old cap on top of her head. Again.
Does she wear it every day? I gave it to her the last time we saw each other. We were at the Loop. Madoc and Jared were supposed to race, but her dad showed up and took her home. She was thirteen, and I gave her the hat to ease the guilt, but then she traded me her gold compass to make sure I’d return someday. The weight of it sits against my thigh inside my pocket.
She moves past me, gesturing around her shop. “Last time you were home, this was empty, huh?”
Home…
I gaze around at the old building. After all the years I passed by it when I lived here, it doesn’t look as old inside as I thought it would.
She leads me through the kitchen and into the shop. “I bought it right after I graduated high school.”
“How’d you afford that?”
She pushes past the counters, turning to face me among the tables.
I breathe out a nervous laugh, realizing. “Sorry, rude question.”
How quickly I sink back into the role of someone close enough to her to pry.
She shrugs. “I got an investment from my mom. And my dad owned the building, so I got a deal.”
She presses her lips together, though, and avoids my gaze as if there’s more to the story.
The display cases are empty, trays not yet put out for the morning rush, while baskets hang from hoops, covering an entire wall that probably offers an assortment of breads and rolls, loaves and buns. The front of the shop is almost entirely covered by windows, and I can see the sidewalk across the street where I stood a few minutes ago.
Several tables sit around me, and there’s more on the sidewalk outside, and I know she didn’t do all of this alone. I can picture her family—minus me—spending a whole day together, painting, wiring, and moving in furniture and sacks of flour. Three Days Grace or Five Finger Death Punch blasting over a speaker. Jax probably brought pizza. Madoc, the beer.
“It was strictly a summer business while I was in college,” she tells me, letting her eyes float around the room, “but now that I’m done…”
She runs a hand down the counter, and I notice a lock of hair spilling out of the cap and down her cheek.