Page 34 of Late to Love

I extracted what felt like a blood oath from him to do better, and by Sunday, I was exhausted. The thought of seeing Anthony at yoga was almost enough to get me to go, but something told me his appearance might have been a onetime thing, anyway.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, I’ve decided I need the coldest, frothiest coffee around, along with a chocolate croissant, to really get my day started off right. With a smirk, I pull out my phone and type a message to Anthony.

I’ll be a little late to the loft, Daddy. Grabbing some coffee.

The message immediately shows as read, but he doesn’t respond, which makes me laugh. Because of course he doesn’t.

I’m waiting in the line for my coffee when someone calls my name. I turn, and it’s my ex. “Jason.”

He smiles, and his eyes take a leisurely stroll over my body like they have a right to. It makes my skin crawl. We ended things on good terms, but I’m not a fan of being looked at as though I exist purely for a man’s gaze.

Surprising no one, really.

“Eyes up here,” I snap.

His grin gets broader. “Sassy as always,” he chuckles. “How are you?”

I don’t bother answering. Somehow, having the wordsassybe a descriptor of me come out of his mouth is yet another thing I don’t like. Still, the guy’s around town, and this isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. Shoving down the urge to tell him to keep his eyes and mouth shut, I aim for common ground. “You still at the library?”

He nods, standing straighter, and when he speaks, there’s a tinge of…whining, almost? “Of course. I’d be head librarian if it weren’t for old Mr. Stringer.”

I force my face to remain neutral, and boy howdy, is it hard. I fuckingloveMr. Stringer. He was single-handedly responsible for my love of reading, not that I have much time to do it right now. He’d realized early on that I wasn’t the fluffy book kind of girl and immediately had me flying through action and adventure books, then murder mysteries and spy stories. It’s entirely possible I wasn’t old enough for some of the novels he gave me, but what’s wrong with reading about a dead body now and then?

“He’s still there, huh?” I say instead.

Jason’s face pinches. “Says he’s got another few years in him.” He straightens one arm and adjusts the fit of his button-down, far too starchy for the humidity of the day outside. “Anyway.” He pauses and takes a breath, seeming to steel himself for the next part. “Would you, ah, be interested in maybe meeting for coffee or something?”

I bark out a laugh. “No.” There isn’t even a remote possibility I’m interested in this man. He’s nothing I want, and all this conversation is doing is proving that he has some serious work to do on himself. Even if he did, someone like him would never satisfy me. For that matter, Jason never satisfied me, anyway. Seems I’m destined to want a broody, grumpy bartender instead.

Jason looks shocked. “Really? I thought?—”

“Darcy!” The barista calls my name, and I turn without another word to grab my drink and croissant.

“Yeah, like I said—no thanks.” And because I can’t help myself, I look him straight in the eye as I take a giant slurp of my drink, then close the distance between us to give him a condescending pat on the head as I leave. “Good luck.”

Not gonna lie, the whole interaction puts a little pep in my step.

I’m late enough that Anthony is already downstairs, his back to me as I let myself in, the open door sending a streak of early-morning sun into the dimly lit arcade. He shifts, looking my way, but he’s far enough away that I can’t tell what his expression is.

“Good morning,” I call out.

He nods, a simple jerk of his head, and says nothing.

Standard. It’s standard behavior and yet it irritates the crap out of me. The man dug his fingers into my thighs so hard they left little bruises, and all he does is jerk his head down in a silent hello.

Ugh. Whatever. I’m still in a good mood and he can’t take that from me. With another hearty slug of my coffee, I head upstairs and get to work.

Lunch comes and goes, and no sign of Anthony. I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not happy about the lack of the man, but also fully aware that we’re in the thick of summer. He’s probably dealing with shrieking kids and exasperated moms—a combination so heinous that I frankly have no idea how he deals with it.

A little before four, I’ve done as much I’m going to do and flop onto the couch I have plans to replace. At four on the dot, the door opens.

I rise from the couch and stare at him.

He stares back.

“Where have you been?”

His brow furrows. “Working.” He strides to the kitchen and pulls a jug of water out of the fridge, pouring some in a fresh glass and looking up at me with a question in his eyes as I enter. When I shake my head, he puts the water back in the fridge and picks up his glass, downing the liquid in a few gulps.

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