Page 32 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
She doesn’t answer my question.
Just lowers her eyes and presses her lips together like she’s holding something back. Like whatever’s in that folder is made of glass and the wrong word will shatter it. I consider my options. I could push. Normally, I would. I’m not exactly a patient man.
But tonight, I don’t. I need to play this differently. I think of the new plan. Wonder if it’s too cold blooded. Too calculated. Then I push those thoughts aside.
Instead, I flag the waitress and nod toward Jules. “Coffee for her. Black unless you say otherwise.”
She blinks at me, wary. I think she’ll blow me off but she gives a small nod. “Cream. No sugar.”
The waitress scribbles it down and walks away, and Jules leans back like she’s rethinking her entire night. Her fingers loosen on the folder but don’t leave it. She won’t look at me, not really. Just studies the faded laminate of the table like it’s the most interesting thing in the diner. Like the couple who are now actively having sex in the back corner aren’t there.
“You come out this late at night a lot?” I ask after a long stretch of silence.
She nods. “All the time.”
Liar.
But I let it slide.
The waitress brings her coffee and Jules sets down the folder. It’s plain but I notice a sticker on the inside, though I can’t make out what it says. She cradles the mug in both hands like she needs the warmth more than the caffeine. She doesn’t look at the folder. Or at me for that matter. Still hasn’t asked why I’m here or how I manage to keep showing up when she least expects me.
I grab a French fry and frown. It’s cold.
“Want some?” I ask.
She glances at the basket, then back at me like I’ve asked her to walk on fire.
“You going to answer me?”
“Silence can be an answer.” An eyebrow lifts. The right one. A move I’m sure she’s practiced many times.
“It’s not the one I want, though.”
She doesn’t smile, but she’s listening. It’s in the twitch of her mouth. The way her shoulders lower by an inch.
“I’m not the devil,” I tell her. “I’m just persistent.”
“You’re persistent with fries?”
“Among other things.” I lift a hand and motion to the waitress again. “Fresh basket, please. And a side of ranch.”
Jules raises that brow even higher. “Ranch?”
“I’m not a monster.”
That earns me the faintest curve of her lips. Not a full smile. But enough to feel like I’ve cracked the ice. Just a little. I’ve been a born charmer my whole life. I know the drill.
The waitress brings the fries a few minutes later, golden and crisp, steam still rising from the basket. I slide them between us and don’t say a word. Just lean back and sip my coffee.
Jules waits exactly sixty seconds before reaching for one.
“You’ve been out,” she says, chewing carefully. “Clubbing.”
“You always smell this good when you’ve been crying?” I decide to strike early and see where this lands.
Her gaze shoots to mine, sharp. A crack in the armor.
“I haven’t been…” She sits back, eyes on the folder. “You don’t know anything about me.”
