Page 127 of They Are Mine

From my seat, I can see everything.

Him.

His posture.

The way his fingers skim his menu, slow, deliberate.

How he adjusts his glasses, thoughtful, before ordering.

God.

I’m so gone.

I peek over the top of my menu as the waitress comes back.

He orders steak. Medium rare.

Classy. Decisive. Perfect.

And then?

Oh.

He takes a book out of his briefcase.

I lean forward.

My heart actually flutters.

I have to know.

What are you reading, Mr. Sterling?

I squint, biting my lip, trying to make out the title.

Hemingway.

Oh, fuck.

I press my thighs together.

Of course, it’s Hemingway.

Not some trashy crime novel. Not a self-help book. Not some cheap nonsense.

Literature.

God, I think I love him.

I flip open my notebook, my newest one, just for him.

I draw hearts around his name.

Elliot Sterling.

I mouth it to myself, just to feel it.

Then, I start writing.

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