Page 24 of The Likelihood Of You

That’s probably how I’m finding the strength to take on her hurt as well as my own right now.

But I’m confused.

My head feels like I’m in a game of Would You Rather with myself: would I rather pursue things with Florence, but there’s a risk that she’s playing me and everything will turn out just as it did with Darcie, my world will crash and burn again, and I’ll never leave the safety of my apartment, or, torment myself forever and when she slips away I’ll spend the rest of my days wishing I would have tried for her.

Trusted her.

My head springs up, and I shake it, attempting to rid myself of all this overthinking nonsense. Because sure, so what if I like her? That didn’t mean she felt the same.

She just spent the last half an hour telling me, in detail, what forced her to come here, what she was trying to escape. Saying that she wants that sense of independence she’s needed for so long, and figuring out a way to make her bakery dreams real. Which I completely forgot to ask her about, but her turning up to set with boxes of pastries and saying she was trying to master my Mom’s apple pie recipe that day I met her sure as hell makes a lot more sense.

The chances of her even wanting to begoodfriends with me were low.

I know that when Darcie left, the thought of getting to know someone like that again scared me still. It still does. Which makes this whole thing even more of a mind fuck. It hasn’t even been a year since she slammed the door in my face, laughing while she did it, leaving mea shell of a man with a barely beating heart, and I don’t know if I’m capable of handling something like that again.

That game of Would You Rather in my head feels like it’s waiting for an answer. But I wasn’t ready to answer just yet. Or was I?

The more I think about how I’d been with Florence today, unlike the other times when there was a surge of panic creeping its way up me, it occurred to me that not once did Darcie, or my fears with being with someone again board my train of thought. They never crossed my mind. I was simply just enjoying sitting with her, until she brought up what had happened to her, and all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around her and make her hurt float away with the breeze.

Even when I wiped that tear away from her cheek, all I felt was calm.

A low bark from Bagel tears me away from my thoughts, and I peel myself off the bed to find her.

I find the fur ball sitting in front of one of the stools perched underneath the island, her head pointing up to me, and her eyes weirdly squinted, almost like she could sense I was having an internal debate with myself, and she wanted to hear it.

I slide out one of the stools and sit on it, gently swaying it from side to side. The next thing I knew, I was telling Bagel all about Florence, every single thing about her. Even what she told me about her fiancé and sister. I would never tell another person about that, but Bagel didn’t count, unless she had somehow learned to speak English and talk, which I wouldn’t put past her. At one point, when I was describing what she looked like, I swore I saw her smile.

Or I could just be exhausted. It’s been a long day.

When I eventually stop rambling, Bagel curls herself at my dangling feet, like she needs time to digest all of that information, whichreminds me that I should probably do the same. I leave her in the kitchen, topping up her food before I do, while I stride back to the bedroom, tucking myself under the covers and pulling up a movie on T.V. that emerges from the foot of the bed.

My mind was running at ten times the speed it should have been doing, so I couldn’t tell you a thing about the movie I sat through, or even what movie it was. Even when I eventually drift off to sleep, the last thing I remember is the tiny debate team in my head still screaming over one another, but only one thing becomes clearer the deeper my sleep gets.

Dating likely wasn’t on the cards for either of us anymore.

Chapter nine

Florence

Do you know how many coffee runs I’ve made these past two weeks? Three. Just three.

When Jacob told me this job could be available, I felt nothing but pure relief. I was over the moon. But after the high of not having to go home just yet faded away, I remembered that all assistants were just glorified coffee runners.

I had nightmares that my days were about to morph into that montage fromThe Devil Wears Prada,where Anne Hathaway’s character is sent all over New York picking up skirts from Calvin Klein, and going on a million Starbucks runs.

Wes certainly has the personality of Miranda Priestly.

But no, I've only graced the coffee shop around the corner from the lot three times. The rest of my days have been a colourful blur of escorting the actors from their trailers and dressing rooms, green screen rooms and being Wes’ unofficial pastry supplier.

The pain au choc’s went down a storm on my first day, especially with Wes. One of the other assistants told me I was the saving grace they’d been waiting for, and apparently, he’d been a completely different person since I turned up.

I took that as another sign I was meant to be here, and that whenever my bakery did open, I hoped I’d just secured my first loyal customer.

Truthfully, I’m really enjoying this job, and not just because I can bump up my savings. I think I was enjoying it because of how normal it made me feel. The last job I had was when I was twenty, during my third year of university, on a culinary course. It was a little part-timer in the cafe on campus, nothing fancy, but I put whatever money I earned right into the secret bakery piggy bank I’d stashed under my student bed. I also learned how to make the dreamiest lattes and do the artistic swirly things with the frothed milk, too.

It was fun…until Hugo walked into the cafe after his final business studies exam.

We’d been dating for three months at that point, after meeting at a social event at one of the clubs in town, and for one reason or another, I hadn’t mentioned I worked here. Mainly because I was embarrassed.

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