Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158848 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Mechanic in a small town? Or professional fighter with adoring fans all over the world? The choice seems pretty obvious.
So no matter what he says, I’m not eager to have my heart broken again when he inevitably leaves.
Enough about Griff. I spent my whole summer trying to get over him. College was supposed to be a new beginning. It has been a fresh start.
Until Griff came home and forced me to confront all the feelings I’ve been trying to escape.
I reach the cafe and stop to glance around. Remy’s kind of hard to miss. I pull out my phone to check if I have any messages from him. Remy’s usually on time. Should I wait outside?
Nothing.
Fine. I’ll be able to buy him breakfast for once. Introduce him to scones. Cheered by the thought, I pull the door to the student union open and trot down the short flight of steps to the cafe. The rich scent of coffee and pastries tickles my nose as I step inside.
My eager gaze scans the small cafe, searching for Remy.
And lands…
…on Griff? Sitting at a table, straight ahead and to my right, watching the door.
I blink. Is this a joke? I was thinking about him on my way here. Did I manifest him into existence? Am I hallucinating?
Our eyes lock and he lifts his hand. A sheepish smile curves his lips.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Remy: Something came up at the bar. Griff’s meeting you.
I want to answer with a row of middle finger emojis. Instead, I don’t bother responding at all, and stuff my phone in my pocket.
I force my feet to move in Griff’s direction but it’s like willing them through wet cement. My heart pounds harder and my stomach twists with each step. Why am I so nervous? I just saw him two days ago.
Griff stands to greet me.
I stop at the chair across from his and curl my fingers over the cool metal back. What am I, a lion tamer? Am I going to thrust the chair at his midsection to keep him at bay?
“What are you doing here?”
My harsh tone wipes the tentative smile off his face. He drops back into his chair. “Remy said you needed some stuff. He couldn’t make the drive, so I said I’d do it.”
Warmth spreads though my chest. He drove all this way to bring me some clothes? I pull the chair out and slide into it. “Really? You didn’t have to do that.”
Especially since I was kinda mean to him this weekend.
“Not a problem.” He lifts a big black overstuffed tote bag in the air. The blue sheen of my winter jacket peeks out from the top. He leans to the side and there’s a crinkle from a paper bag. “Your winter boots are in here. Remy just gave ’em to me like that.”
“That’s okay. You really didn’t have to.” I glance at the high, small rectangular window in the corner. “It doesn’t seem cold enough for snow.”
“Remy was worried about you.” He shrugs. “It was a nice drive.”
Too stunned by his presence, I just keep staring at him and twisting my hands together in my lap.
He lifts his chin. “How are your feet?”
“Oh.” I slide one foot out from under the table to show him my ugly sneaker-slides. “I had to find something backless to wear for now.” I nod at the winter boots. “Maybe it’s a good thing you brought them. I left my Docs at home after they brutalized my feet.”
The corners of his mouth lift. “Are you hungry?”
I drop my gaze to the table as he pushes a plate with a giant blueberry muffin toward me. Then he slides a second plate with a pumpkin scone to my side of the table. “Your choice. Or I can get you something else if you want.”
Danger. This is way too familiar. Griff bringing me muffins every weekend for the last who knows how many years. “How’d you know I like their pumpkin scones?”
“They looked good.” He lifts one shoulder and shifts his gaze toward the door. “You don’t like muffins anymore?”
No, they remind me of you. “I do.” I pull the muffin closer. “This is a monster, though. Will you split it with me?”
“Sure.” His shoulders relax and he leans back against his chair.
I carefully break the muffin into two pieces, then split the scone in half.
“This is yours too.” He curls his hand around a short paper cup with a white lid and hands it to me. “Vanilla pumpkin latte.”
How’d he know that’s what I like to order here? I tilt my head, the question about to trip off my tongue when he says, “Thought it would go well with the scone.”
“It does.” I pick up the cup and take a tentative sip. The warm sweet liquid warms my mouth—just the right temp. As I set the cup on the table, thin, black, blocky writing catches my attention.