Page 14 of Anti-Player

Paige: Grande vanillalatte.

Paige: And a cranberry muffin.

:

My chest becomes acoiled spring of delight. Hurrying back to the counter, I catch the eye of the barista from earlier. She stares at me curiously, her smile coy. When she gets close she says, “Hi again. Did you forget something?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

She lights up, snatching a piece of paper, starting to scribble. “I thought so. I've been waiting weeks for you to ask me out. I get off at two, we can meet up for lunch? I'm Heather, by the way.”

I pull a face of utter shock, then one of apology. She reads it and realizes before I say anything that she's made a mistake. “Sorry. Can I order a grande vanilla latte and a cranberry muffin?” With a gentle smile, I add, “Didn't mean to give you the wrong idea. I have plans today with someone else.”

****

I drive my white Mustangthrough the busy streets of Santa Monica as fast as I safely can. It's traffic jam on top of traffic jam thanks to everyone heading to work or school or the beach. It's a miracle I find a parking spot outside Paige's apartment.

Clutching my bag that contains my laptop and the Secret Reader, her coffee and muffin in the other, I cross the street and climb the stairs to her door. It occurs to me that, for someone who values her privacy to the point of using a fake name, image, and post office box, her apartment doesn't have a buzzer or security to keep non-residents out like mine does.

Gathering myself at the top of the third flight, I approach her door and knock to the tune of Power Rangers. I hear some light shuffling; the knob twists, pulls, allowing me to see Paige in all her glory. She told me she'd only woken up when I messaged her twenty minutes ago, but she appears fresh and bright-eyed like she's been getting ready for hours.

Her hair is wound high on her head in a loose bun that leaves strands down her long neck, some framing her from temple to rounded jaw. The tee-shirt dress she has on hugs her at the waist before drifting to her hips, just above her bare knees.

She's not wearing socks or shoes, her toes unpainted. Her vibe is low-key-chill, like she can't be bothered to care that I've driven over to bring her breakfast. Leaning on the door-frame, she lifts her dark eyebrows and stares up at me. “Do you always dress like you're power-walking to a board-meeting?”

Gesturing down at my red button-up, I laugh. “It's how all the other guys dress at work. You don't like it?”

“I didn't say that,” she smirks. Her head jerks over her shoulder. “Come on in.”

Yesterday I'd gotten a peek inside her apartment. Today I'm getting the full experience. I crane my head side to side, but I don't need to; the place is small. After closing the door behind me, I offer her the grande latte and muffin she asked for. “Cute place.”

“Thanks,” she snorts. “Me and my five roommates think so.”

“Your what?”

Paige sips the latte and gives me a sly look. “Kidding. I can barely fit a houseplant in here. Thanks for this, by the way.” Lifting the muffin from the bag she takes a pleased sniff, then a golf-ball sized bite.

I nod, but I'm distracted by studying her apartment. The main room I walked into has an attached kitchen smaller than my closet, a wooden table big enough to hold an expensive looking computer and an office chair. In one corner I see a half-open door to the bathroom, and in the other is a closed one. “What's back there?” I ask.

“My bedroom,” she says simply, chewing more muffin. “Why, do you want a tour?”

Yes, I think. “No,” I say.

“Your loss,” she teases, resting against the small waist-high counter that serves as a cheap way to separate the main room from the kitchen. The muffin is down to just the wrapper; she must have been hungry. When she tilts her head, gulping from the latte, her dress lifts slightly over the tops of her thighs, showing me more of her beautifully soft skin.

My pants tighten instantly.

Paige puts her coffee cup on the counter. “So,” she says, “you're here, I guess we should take advantage of that and do some work.”

“I brought the Secret Reader,” I agree. “I'd love to get started immediately. My schedule is cleared for this.” The number of emails and missed calls pouring in from my company about the fact I've abruptly declared I'm not coming in, and for them to halt all progress on the Secret Reader, is astronomical.

She puckers her lips. “Nice that you can do that. I actually have a stream planned at one o'clock today, though. Gotta work to pay the bills to afford my massive home.”

Taken aback, I try to read between the lines. “You said you didn't want me to pay you for this, but if I'm intruding on your work, you should really let me.”

“No,” she insists quickly. “I can't have you do that.”

“It's really not a problem, Paige. I can afford your fee.”

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