Page 56 of Fly Back to Me
I’m safe.
“Olivia!”
The barista shouts my name behind the Tiffany blue counter, and fright penetrates through me. Leave it to me to wait for a fresh batch of cinnamon buns and then forget I ordered one at all.
I step forward as I pocket the anklet in my skirt, picking up the small bag when I reach the counter. Turning on my heels, the “Hello Board” focuses into view, and I stray off course.
I pluck a Post-it and pen from the mounted holder, but when I realize I don’t have three hands to work with, I grab the roll out of the bag, only to toss the brown paper out.
Shamelessly, I lodge the cinnamon treat between my teeth and scribble a message onto a neon paper before tacking it.
“Hey.”
By now, I know that voice.
I turn as I bite off part of the sugary dough, a pair of blue-gray eyes meeting me on the other side. “Hey,” I croak mid-chew. Pulling the bun away from my mouth, the ends of a couple strands of my hair stick to the icing.
Smooth, Olivia.
A crumb fastens to my lip gloss, and just as I lick it off, Cade’s fingers brush the hair off my snack. “You’d think this would embarrass me, but I warmed up before you got here,” I joke, gesturing to my stained outfit.
Cade’s hand hides in his jeans pocket, his head swerving to the side with a smirk. “Are you on lunch?” he asks before returning his gaze to me.
He’s donning all black today. Black jeans, shirt, boots, and coat. All accessorized with thick waves tousled at the top of his head and a stubbled beard.
Girlfriend.
“Yeah,” I say, leading us back to where I’m sitting.
“What are you reading?” he asks, taking the seat across from me at the small, round table.
I place the cinnamon roll on a napkin before lifting my latte cup. “Jenny Hart. She’s my favorite romance author.” The foam of my beverage fizzles on my tongue, hints of vanilla bursting free.
“Why is she your favorite?” His forearms lounge on the table as he leans in.
I shrug gently, eyes dipping to the closed book beforelanding on those ocean-deep irises. “Her writing is incredible. Sucks you right into the story from the very beginning. Not only that, but she can flawlessly execute the darkest of themes.”
“Dark themes?” he asks.
I nod as I draw another gulp of my drink. “Tragedy and love aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive. Love has the power to heal, don’t you think?”
His chest fills, body tensing as he pivots his attention from me. “I think it also has the power to break you.”
“Aren’t you a bundle of joy,” I quip.
A smirk blooms on his lips, and his tattooed hand sifts through his hair before focusing on me again. “Is that the kind of genre you want to write?”
He’s interested inme.
He balances an elbow on the white quartz, his knuckles resting against his jawline.
“Not dark romance, per se, but I’ve had a few ideas outlined,” I answer. “And by outline, I mean one measly sentence.”
“What is your job?” he asks through pinched brows. “I realize I don’t know what you do.”
“Does it matter if you know?” I counter.
“I don’t ask questions that don’t matter to me.”
