Page 115 of Freckles

But if I go, I’ll spend my time waiting for the blackmailer to make a move. Waiting for Lance to kill me to keep his nephew safe.

Kincaid stands, the fit of his dark tuxedo gorgeous enough that tears well in my eyes. “Either way, it was good to see you.”

I jerk my gaze away and stare at the floor.

If I watch him walk away, it will absolutely break me.

The bell over the door jingles as he exits and the light noise might as well be the dull clang of doom.

“What the eff, Chess? Are you insane?” Esther rushes to the window, and I look in time to see Kincaid get into a waiting sedan, the driver smoothly pulling away from the curb. “He has a chauffeur, Chess.” She starts whacking me with a tea towel. “A chauffeur.”

“He also has a murderous lunatic for an uncle. Steer well clear.”

“Yeah. Like he’s going to go for me.” She watches the window long after the car is out of sight, sighing heavily before she drags herself back to work. “Honestly, they must breed you different down south. Girls in the capital, we know what a good deal looks like.”

“And do you know what a waiting customer looks like? Because it’s still your turn on the counter.”

“Ugh. You’re impossible.” She glances at the keycard still resting on the table. “If you don’t use this, could I keep it for my scrapbook?”

“For what?” I ask, suppressing a smile.

“To commemorate the day I found out my coworker was legitimately insane.”

“Hey.” I snatch the towel from her hand and flick it back at her. “Enough of the insults.” And I pluck the card from her fingers. “And I’ll drop this into the mailbox to return to the hotel.”

“Mm-hm.” She raises her eyebrows.

With an eyeroll, I tuck it into my jeans pocket. “I’m not going within a hundred metres of that place, believe me.” No matter how much I want to.

And at that, Esther looks even more crestfallen. “The disappointing thing is that I do.”

CHAPTERFORTY

FRANCESCA

All afternoon,I tell myself I’m doing the right thing. A phrase that means less with every repetition.

I’m so worried I’ll break and run to his hotel room, that when the girl rostered to work after me calls in sick, I tell the café owner I’m happy to cover her shift. A tactic that means I have an obligation not to chase after Kincaid even if I wanted to.

Yet as the clock counts down towards his deadline, my nerves wind tighter.

At seven, I excuse myself to the staff bathroom. “Two minutes,” I whisper, starting my phone timer. A tear falls, then another, until my shoulders shake with emotion. I cry silently for my allotted time, then pull back the misery, stuffing it deep inside and closing an iron door overtop before I dry my wet cheeks with a paper towel and return to work.

Kincaid came here, apologised to me, explained himself, and my scaredy-cat arse offered him nothing. When he returns home, he’ll still have no clue why I hurt him, and I know the wound runs deep.

It’s the same injury my mother inflicted on me, dealing such a blow to my self-esteem, I still battle those emotions daily.

Kincaid suffered a similar rejection from his own mother. Lance is removed, formal. Ezra can be brutal and scheming.

A dysfunctional family who won’t know or won’t care enough to comfort him. These past weeks, I’ve consoled myself with the thought he’d move on, find someone else, but the pain he carries—pain I inflicted—is clear to see.

The least he deserves is an explanation.

I glance at the clock, already knowing it’s too late. The time is seventeen minutes past seven.

My omission can never be corrected, adding another layer of regret to the weight I already carry.

Eighteen minutes past seven.

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