Page 4 of Oliver
THE Zahra Nazarian?
I grimaced.
The one and only.
I don’t care when you’re done with this date, I’m coming over and you’re telling me EVERYTHING.
I laughed despite myself. At least someone understood how messed up this situation was.
If there was ever a time for the aliens to abduct me…
Not before I get the tea, Ollie. You better call me when you’re heading back home.
I sent an emoji of an alien and slipped the phone back into my pocket, feeling marginally better, but my concentration was shot.
With a resigned sigh, I collected the papers I’d been grading and slid them neatly into my satchel before slinging it over my shoulder.
I had less than four hours to figure out how to face Zahra Nazarian without completely losing my shit.
At 5:37 PM, I stepped out of the cab and into Café Lucid on Seventh, adjusting the collar of my wool coat.
The gray skies mirrored my mood, and I ran my hand through my hair, bracing myself to walk into the café.
The door closed behind me with a jingle that sounded more like a warning than a welcome.
Lucid was a cozy spot I’d passed a hundred times but never entered—exposed brick walls, warm lighting that countered the dreariness sneaking in through the windows, and the scent offreshly ground coffee beans. It was the kind of place that boasted a communal pretense, when in reality it was where people pretended to be deep while sipping overpriced lattes.
But I didn’t care about the ambiance; I cared about control.
I took my coat off as I scanned the bustling space, expecting to secure a strategic position before Zahra showed up. Twenty minutes was supposed to be more than enough of a buffer, but when my eyes reached the table on the opposite side of the café, she was already seated near the window, angling her chair to face the door, absorbed in her own world.
The sight of her halted my forward trajectory. I was frozen, barely managing to breathe, and my heart struggled to beat.
Ten years had sharpened her—angles where there’d been softness, and a kind of poised elegance that felt both unfamiliar and painfully familiar all at once. Her dark hair tumbled over her shoulder as she fidgeted with a sugar packet, arranging it with precise care alongside its companions before straightening a small notebook and pen she’d placed on the table.
She was fidgeting. A nervous habit she’d carried into adulthood.
And then she did it—tucked her hair behind her ear. A simple gesture that knocked the air out of my lungs. Memories came rushing to the forefront of my mind. Years of being buried in the recesses of my brain, and one simple, nervous gesture summoned them from the abyss.
And then came the questions that I should hate her too much to be curious about.
Had she gone to her dream college? Traveled like she’d always planned? Did she still read late into the night, lost in old novels and big dreams?
Zhara checked her phone, fingers moving quickly. Probably texting her bailout plan in case I turned out to be a creep. Which I kind of was, standing frozen and staring at her.
The thought propelled me forward. I was being ridiculous. This was a business meeting, nothing more. I would be polite, professional, and firm. I would explain to Zahra why I couldn't take her booking, make my excuses to Foxy, and move on with my life.
Simple.
I squared my shoulders, my navy sport jacket’s casual cut a shield as much as a uniform, and I almost laughed.
The form-fitting T-shirt under the jacket clung to my frame, a far cry from the polo shirts that had been my most casual attire until five years ago. I was never one to let my fashion dictate my psyche; I always strived for the opposite. But working at RAD taught me a thing or two about the importance of appearance, not only for public perception, but inner perception as well.
I used to be all stiff collars and khakis, a walking stereotype of the overachieving college kid. Now, with contacts sharpening my vision instead of glasses and clothes that emphasized my hard-earned physique, I felt a little more like the man I’d become—someone who could blend in, adapt, and who got the job done no matter what.
I made my way over, my steps measured, my posture calculated.
Zahra glanced up as I approached, her green eyes widening briefly before she looked back at her phone, her fingers flying faster over the screen. I stopped just at the edge of her peripheral vision, but she continued staring at her phone, acting oblivious.
