Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Because… what the hell else could I do?
Run?
My gut said to run.
But run where? How far? With what money? I’d sunk every bit of money I had into Deja Brew. And the place was barely staying afloat. There was no extra cash. I was barely paying all my bills.
I mean, yeah, I guess if I really wanted to, I could grab my old camping tent, everything that would fit into my trunk, and go… disappear into the wilderness somewhere. But what kind of life was that? Always on the run? Always trying to survive? No money to do anything.
I didn’t believe there was anywhere I could go in the continental United States where the long arm of the cartel couldn’t reach me.
There was overseas.
But that took planning and money too.
Which was why I was wiping my tears away and trying to cold compress my eyes in the bathroom before opening up.
This was what I knew, what I could do to keep myself from just dissolving into hysterics or depression.
I put on a brave face for the morning ‘rush,’ which consisted of fifteen people.
Then there was nothing and no one, allowing the thoughts to come rushing back.
By the time the door jangled open again, I was in a bit of an existential crisis, sitting on the counter, disassociating.
“Shale, what the fuck?” a voice said, making me jolt so hard that I fell off of the counter, just barely managing to keep myself on my feet as I landed.
I looked up, and there he was.
Junior.
His stupidly handsome face filled with concern.
“You scared me,” I said, shaking myself out of it. “Sorry, I was… somewhere else,” I said. “I’m surprised you need more coffee after all you had yesterday,” I said, going over to dump the pot of hot coffee on the burner since I couldn’t remember when I brewed it, and I didn’t want it to taste stale.
“Shale,” he called as I emptied the spent grounds, placed a new filter, then filled it with fresh ground coffee.
“Yeah?” I asked, putting a little too much pep into the word. Overcompensating. But, I figured, when were men ever listening closely enough to notice a slight change in tone?
“Look at me,” he demanded.
It was absurd, but the forcefulness in his tone had a weird little shiver of desire moving through me.
I glanced over, brows raised, playing the innocent card.
Apparently, though, Junior was one of those one-in-a-million guys. The ones who didn’t take you at your word or at face value.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I assured him as the rich scent of coffee started to fill the air. But, for once, the smell was turning my stomach. Probably because I had nothing but caffeine in my stomach, and it was objecting to that.
“Bullshit. You were weird last night. You’re weird today. And you’ve been crying.”
“You’re being a little nosy, don’t you think?” I asked, vulnerability making me snippy. “Even if something was wrong, why would I tell you?” I added, waving it off as I grabbed him a large travel cup.
He said nothing as I poured his cup then slipped the cap on.
It wasn’t until I was passing it to him that I realized he wasn’t going to let it go.
Because his hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I insisted, but even I heard the false note in my voice.
“Listen, you could make this easy and just tell me,” he said.
“Or?” I asked, jerking my chin up.
“Or I sit right over there,” he told me, nodding his chin toward his usual spot, “hacking into all your socials, reading all your messages, learning all your secrets you thought no one would ever come across. Where you shop, what you buy, who you like and can’t stand, tearing apart every corner of your life to find out what is going on.”
“That is so incredibly invasive and creepy. Do you have any idea how creepy a threat like that is?”
“Yes,” he said, face impassive. “Which is why I think you should just tell me. Because it’s none of my fucking business how many guys or girls you’ve fucked and what your favorite junk food is or when you’re on your damn period. But I will figure that all out if I have to.”
“Why do you care?” I shot back.
“The selfish reason? I like this coffee shop. It would piss me off not having this place to come to sometimes. The unselfish reason? I was raised to give a fuck when a woman looks like she’s in distress. And I’m catching the vibe that this isn’t about a boyfriend or bills or shit like that. This is something more than that.”
He paused, waiting for me to say something.
But what was there to say?
“Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll let it drop,” he said.
Speaking of letting things drop, his hand was still holding my wrist. But now, his thumb was absentmindedly teasing back and forth over the underside of it, creating little shivers.