Page 14 of Because I Liked A Boy
Behind the counter, Mr. Whitaker is hunched over the register, glasses perched low on his nose as he scribbles in a ledger. His silver hair sticks out at odd angles, blue eyes sharp when they finally lift to me.
“Morning, Isabella,” he says, voice rough from years of cigars he swears he’s quit.
“Morning.” I drop my bag behind the counter and loop the apron over my head, the cotton straps tugging my hair loose from its clip.
His gaze sweeps me once, like he’s checking for cracks. He’s been doing that since the day he hired me.
“There’s a shipment in the back,” he says with a nod toward the storeroom. “Romance, mostly. Get them out on the front table before lunch.”
I smirk faintly. “You only give me the romance boxes because you know I’ll actually alphabetise them.”
He grunts, which is as close to a laugh as he gets. “And because you don’t complain.”
“Yet,” I mutter, heading for the back.
When I come out front again, Mr. Whitaker is watching me over the rim of his mug, one brow raised.
“That grease monkey walked you in again?”
“He works two streets over.”
He takes a slow sip, unimpressed. “So do a dozen other people, and none of them play escort every Monday.”
“It’s… convenient,” I say, stacking the fresh romances on the table.
“Uh-huh.” The corner of his mouth quirks, just enough to make me want to throw something at him.
I ignore it, focusing on the display, but the phantom warmth of Hunter’s hand still lingers against mine, the echo of his smirk shadowing me long after he’s gone.
Trouble. Wrapped in a smirk. And for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, I already know I’m going to let him walk me again next Monday.
Across The Ocean
The first thing I hear is the faint drip of the kitchen tap. The second is the traffic two streets over, muted through the thin walls.
Sunlight filters through crooked blinds, painting pale stripes across the cream walls I’ve tried to make less bare. Postcards and torn-out book pages are pinned above the couch, corners curling, tiny rebellions against emptiness. The bookshelf I dragged home from Page Turners is already overflowing—romance classics stacked beside thrillers Nathan used to love, Ruby’s loud recommendations wedged between. A framed photo sits face down on the top shelf, where I can’t accidentally look at it.
The desk in the corner is cluttered with receipts, half-empty mugs, and my battered laptop. It looks like I live here now. Not just existing, but living. Six months of coffee rings on the table, books left open on the arm of the sofa, and notes stuck to the fridge with cheap magnets.
It’s not much. But it’s mine.
The sharp trill of my phone cuts through the stillness.
I frown, reaching blindly across the night stand. My contacts list is short, and none of them would be texting me before I’ve had caffeine. The screen’s glow is harsh in the dim light.Unknown number.
Except I recognise it. My chest goes tight.
The message is short.
I know where you are.
Five words, heavy enough to anchor me in place. My stomach knots, cold and sharp, and my grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles ache.
For a moment I just sit there, the walls pressing in, the cheap air freshener clinging to the corners like it’s trying too hard to cover something rotten.
Then I’m up—hoodie, leggings, trainers—pulling my hair into a messy knot and slipping out the door before I’ve really decided where I’m going.
The morning air is cool, the street quiet except for the far-off hiss of tyres on wet tarmac. I cut through three blocks until the park opens up in front of me—patchy grass, a few benches, swings creaking lazily in the breeze.
