Page 2 of Tangled Threads Of Fate

“No worries, Wren. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it, talking to people all the time. Car number four thought I should know her order just by the sound of her voice. Can you believe that?”

I looked out at car number four and indeed knew her order, because she was a regular, but I didn’t tell Tammy that. Instead, I just rolled my eyes—the universal sign ofpeople are so annoying, especially in customer service.

Sucking in a deep breath, I got on with the day. “Welcome to Java Llama! Can I take your order?”

Then I got to work, trying to clear the backlog of cars in the drive-thru, now that there were two baristas behind themachines. Fortunately, we were purely a drive-thru coffee place, so no one had to serve on the front counter, a small mercy that I knew both Tammy and the other barista Camila appreciated.

I worked through my lunch break, even though Bob didn’t deserve it, and before I knew it, the end-of-day routine had begun. Java Llama closed its drive-thru lane at two p.m., thank goodness. The six a.m. starts weren’t so bad in summer, but in winter, they were hell.

But if I had to get up at sixandnot leave until six? I’d probably throw myself off the overpass on the way home.

I helped scrub everything down and did the food prep for the following morning, before leaving behind Tammy as she locked up. Bob usually went home at midday every day, because he opened the store. I mean, he didn’t do anything except unlock the door, but I guess he had to wake up early and drag his skinny ass here.

I was starving, and I’d reached the point of nausea. All I’d eaten all day was that apple, and it was sitting badly in my stomach. Or maybe it was the two double espressos I’d had during my shift, just to keep me going.

Waving at Camila and Tammy, I headed back to the street. “See you guys tomorrow.” Fortunately, tomorrow was Saturday. We were only open Monday to Friday, really preying on that early-morning commute crowd, so at least my weekends were my own. It wasn’t a bad gig, which was why I’d never told Bob to shove it.

Walking home on autopilot, my brain flicked through random, distracting topics. The kind where you thought about them so hard, you arrived at the front of your house and realized you’d been contemplating the mating habits of jellyfish for fifteen whole minutes, with no recollection of crossing any roads or making any turns the entire trip home.

Tonight was the premiere season ofLust In The Sun, a reality show filled with B-list celebs from all over the world, living on a small island near Aruba, trying to find love with lucky commonfolk. It was supremely cringe, but man, was it compelling. Which meant I needed at least one pint of ice cream to kick the season off in style.

Luckily, I already had to stop at Rossi’s on the way home to pick up a grocery delivery for my landlady, Mrs. Byrne, who was ninety, with the wit and humor of someone much younger. In a tragedy that happened far too often, her body was failing her long before her mind. When I’d first moved in five years ago, she’d seemed a lot more spry, but she was aging fast.

So we had an arrangement: I’d pick up her groceries, and she’d make me a plate for dinner. It made her feel like she was doing me a favor, and not like she needed to be cared for in some way. She wasn’t wrong; she was caring for me far more than I was caring for her.

Five years ago, back when I was a grieving eighteen-year-old kid fresh out of high school, Mrs. Byrne’s meals had been the only thing that stopped me starving to death. I hadn’t wanted to do anything, let alone cook.

My parents had been devout Catholics, though apart from getting me christened and then confirmed, they’d never pushed me into it. But when they’d gotten back from a tropical holiday and had both succumbed to some weird virus that enlarged their heart and inflamed their lungs, the last thing my mom had done was reach out to some of her church friends, finding somewhere that I’d be safe and cared for, in case the worst happened.

And it did.

Their loss was still like a stab through my heart. I didn’t think I’d ever recover from losing them both.

Mrs. Byrne had been friends with my maternal grandmother, and a member of my parents’ church. She’d been a widow longerthan I’d been alive, living in a three-story walk-up where she rented out two of the three floors. She’d agreed to rent me the top floor for as long as I needed it, no matter what happened. She’d held my mom’s hand as she was dying and had sworn she’d make sure I was okay, easing a worry in my mother’s mind enough that she could let go, and stop suffering through days of pain.

Getting Mrs. Byrne’s groceries was the very least I could do. I owed her so much more than I could ever repay.

Swallowing down the emotion, I turned onto a familiar street. Rossi’s would just be winding down from the lunch rush, and I was hoping I could snag a hoagie as well.

“Wren! Are you here for Mrs. Byrne’s groceries?”

Valerie Rossi was my age, and we’d attended the same school, but we’d never been friends. Still, I enjoyed stopping for a chat, especially when I knew that I wouldn’t talk to anyone else again for the next… oh, sixteen hours or so.

I smiled politely at the elderly Mr. Lunetta trying to get a tin of tuna from the bottom shelf. Squatting down, I grabbed one of each variety and held them up for his inspection as I responded. “Yes please, Val. And do you think Uncle Antonio could make me a Rossi’s Special, extra provolone?”

“Can do, Wren!” someone yelled from the back of the store. I could only assume it was Uncle Antonio.

Old Mr. Lunetta tapped the tin of tuna in lemon, and I stood, putting it in the cart for him. “Thank you, dear,” he said. I patted him softly on the arm and wove around him, heading back toward the old-fashioned register. Handing Val the big reusable bags Mrs. Byrne gave me to haul her groceries to and fro, I helped her load the food carefully inside.

“And how is your sexy neighbor?” Val asked, waggling her eyebrows at me like she always did every time I came in.

The apartment between my top-floor place and Mrs. Byrne’s ground-floor apartment belonged to Nate, who I thought might have been her nephew. I hadn’t really had a single conversation with him in the last five years, just passing pleasantries. Sometimes, he’d help me carry my groceries to the top floor. He did all the handyman stuff and yard work for Mrs. Byrne, and I didn’t know if that was in exchange for food too.

There was one small reason I’d never really spoken full sentences to Nate.

Simply put, he was smoking fucking hot. Like, holy shit, my ovaries had started a fan club and named it theLet Nate Impregnate Us Club. Total members: two.

I mean, the rest of me kinda wanted to join the fan club too. He was universally handsome, in a rugged kind of way. Messy dirty-blond hair, sparkling blue eyes, sun-browned skin, and so many damn tattoos that I daydreamed about tracing every single one with my tongue.

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