Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Because Dane is nothing like the selfish, cruel stranger who took my body without my consent. He’s patient and tender.
And my broken brain doesn’t respond to that gentle treatment, no matter how hard I swoon for his protectiveness.
I’ve been making too many mistakes at work, and today, Stacy had to take me into the kitchen to have a private word about how many ruined drinks I’ve wasted.
Even worse, I haven’t been able to paint. Every time I sit at my easel, my fist locks around my paintbrush, and nothing but uninspired daubs of paint appear on my canvas, refusing to coalesce into a coherent scene.
My only outlets for my pain are closed to me, and it’s eating me up inside.
GentAnon won’t answer my messages begging to reconnect.
And Dane hasn’t shown his face in the café.
It should be a small mercy after how terribly things ended between us, but I find myself searching for him every morning at eight oh-five AM. I long to hear his melodic accent caressing my name, to see his cocky half-smile as he locks me in his gaze like I’m the center of his universe.
My exhaustion is so acute that little black dots float at the edge of my vision, and I completely zone out at the espresso bar.
Pain sears my fingers, and I drop the milk jug with a sharp cry. I steamed it for too long, and the hot, thick liquid bubbled over to burn my hand. The metal jug clangs on the tiled floor, and milk spills everywhere. Little white droplets spray the fridge, and it rapidly spreads to pool under the counter.
Despite the pain in my hand, I dart into the back to grab a mop without pausing to treat the burn. I whirl to return to the mess I made, but Stacy is blocking my way back into the café.
Her hands are on her hips, and her berry-painted lips are pressed into a thin line. “What is going on with you?”
My eyes burn hotter than the prickling sensation on my fingers. “I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”
She shakes her head, and her voluminous, glossy black curls sway around her heart shaped face. “I know you didn’t do it on purpose. And I’m not here to chew you out. I’m worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
She blows out a sigh and takes the mop from me. “Run some cold water over your hand. I’ll clean up the spill.”
“I can do it,” I protest. It’s my mess, my responsibility.
Embarrassment heats my face. I’m the biggest mess here.
Stacy’s eyes soften with concern. She’s not just my manager; over the last two years, we’ve become friends.
“No, you need to go home.” Her tone is firm but calm, not cruel. “For a few days, I thought maybe you’d been out drinking late, so I was pissed. But I texted Franklin, and he said y’all haven’t been out in a couple weeks. I’m not sure what you’re going through, but I can tell you need a break.”
My shoulders curve inward, and I’m too wrung out to maintain my straight posture. I feel like a clipped flower, slowly wilting after being cut off at the root.
“I haven’t been out partying,” I say. “I promise.”
“I know, and that’s why I’m telling you to go home and get some rest,” she reassures me. “Whatever you’re going through, we’re here for you. And not just for karaoke and dancing. You can talk to me.”
My heart twists painfully, and tears well in my eyes. I consider her a friend, but I realize in this moment that I’ve been keeping her at an emotional distance. We go out with the girls and Franklin, and we always have a good time.
But I haven’t allowed any of them to truly know me. They don’t know anything about my past, my family, my dreams.
Dane is the only person in years to glimpse the real me behind the sunny smiles and pretty paintings.
Stacy pulls me in for a quick hug. “Okay, we don’t have to talk about it now,” she allows. “Take care of yourself, Abby. When you’re feeling better, we’ll go out for tacos and salsa dancing. Everything will be okay. We’re all here for you.”
I dash the tear from my cheek as she releases me from her embrace. “Thank you. I really am sorry about the mess.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures me. “I’ve got it.”
With that, she carries the mop out into the café to clean up the milk I spilled.
I move as though in a daze, following her instructions to put my hand in cold water for a minute. My skin is flushed an angry shade of red, but it won’t blister. When the prickling sensation eases, I turn off the faucet and trudge to my locker to retrieve my purse.
My eyes are downcast when I slink back into the café, my cheeks still flushed with embarrassment. I’m mortified that I’m being sent home because I’m too tired to function, but I’m touched by Stacy’s concern.