Page 23 of A Boy Is a Gun: Part II
Three
Taylor
Ishouldn’t be thistired.
It’s barely nine p.m., Mia’s asleep, and I should be curled up on the couch with some half-watched cooking show and my second glass of red.
Instead, I’m standing in the mailroom in a hoodie, no bra, and a messy bun that’s one shake away from collapsing.I came down to grab a package and avoid my thoughts.But thoughts are petty—they follow you down the elevator like guilt on stilettos.
It’s been three days since Cameron and I...Yeah.That.
And I still haven’t said it out loud.Not to Hayley, not to Jamie, not even to myself in the mirror.But my body knows.My legs still ache in the best way.My soul’s a little scrambled.And I keep waking up expecting to smell him.
I exhale, reach into my mailbox, and pull out a padded envelope addressed to“Ms.Taylor Gray”in Sharpie.It’s from one of my vendors, probably a sample of a new bean roast or a mug I didn’t order but might like.
I’m heading back toward the elevator, package hugged to my chest like it’s armor, when the doors open and I see him.Tall.Clean fade.White T-shirt hugs all the right places.And a smile like he knows the punchline to a joke I haven’t heard yet.
“Hey,” he says, stepping inside.“Late-night coffee run?”
“Nah.”I hold up the envelope.“Mailroom mission.”
“You’re braver than me,” he smiles again.“I don’t check mine until it’s so full the key gets stuck.”
I smile despite myself and step into the elevator.He hits the button for the 4th floor.I hit 5.“I always wondered who lived on the top floor,” he says, leaning casually against the elevator wall like it was built for this moment.“I thought it must be a rapper or some influencer.”
“Nope,” I reply, tucking a loose curl behind my ear.“Just me.Coffee shop owner with a toddler and a mild dependency on oat milk.”
He chuckles, deep and smooth.“You sell yourself short.”
“No, I sell espresso.”I offer.“The self-deprecation is just a bonus.”
He grins, and it’s one of those slow, deliberate grins that starts on the left side of his mouth and finishes with the tilt of his head.Like he knows exactly what it’s doing to me.“Oh, I think you’re rather special,” he says, eyes dragging down my frame before flicking back up.It was just fast enough to stay respectful, yet just slow enough to let mecatch it.
I should be immune to this shit by now.Instead, my skin warms like I’ve been standing too close to a fire.“Are you always this forward with your neighbors, or is this a new campaign?”I ask, arching an eyebrow.
“Only the ones who wear SZA T-shirts and smell like cinnamon.”He shrugs, easy.Meanwhile, I just folded like a lawn chair.“You’re the mystery woman from 5E.Everyone on the second floor thinks you’re married to a mob boss.”
“Not far off,” I mutter under my breath, before correcting myself.“Ex.Very ex.”
His brows lift, but he doesn’t comment or ask, which I appreciate.The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to my floor.“You live just below me, huh?”I say, turning in the doorway.
“I do.So, if I ever get too loud, feel free to knock,” he replies, stepping just close enough that I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact.
