Page 48 of The Colour of Revenge
Starting with going to Starbucks.
By the time I get there it’s late morning and the line is a mile long.
I join the back of the queue, shifting from foot to foot when a hot breath ghosts over my skin.
“Hi, Princess.”
I spin around, finding Nate, and throw my arms around his shoulders.
“What are you doing here?” I pull back. “Are you stalking me?” I tease, only half joking.
“I did say you’d never be rid of me.” He shrugs casually like he didn’t just confess to actual stalking.
Why am I surprised?
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Nate asks, taking in my jumper, his eyes lit up with amusement.
The line moves so I shuffle forward before answer. “I like the irony.”
He barks out a laugh. “Can you get me one?”
I raise an incredulous eyebrow. “In pink?”
“Are there other colours?”
My own laugh bursts free. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
By the time I have my hot chocolate in hand—yes, I hate coffee, no don’t sue me—I’m not ready to head home so the two of us grab a table. It’s one that lets us sit side by side, so, of course, we do that.
We talk for a while. I tell him a little about some of my childhood hobbies. Things that may seem trivial to most but are so far removed from the woman I am now. He doesn’t push me to open up further than I’m comfortable with, he just listens.
“I loved painting,” I tell him. “Abstract art mostly. I think because I wasn’t very good at it. I would tell people it was abstract, so they didn’t think it was awful.”
What I don't tell him is that my paintings would usually end up torn up by my father when I'd proudly present them to him.
His eyes crinkle when he laughs. “And look at you now,” he winks at me knowingly, “still an artist.”
My lips tug up into a smile. “Just a different kind of paint.”
His grin lights up his entire face. “You just get me.”
Nate nudges my shoulder. “What’s your favourite food?”
“That’s a hard question.” I tap my chin in thought. “I don’t know that I could pick just one thing. I love a Chinese, but I’m also a sucker for Italian—you know, since I lived there—”
“Wait,” he interjects, “you lived in Italy?”
I nod. “For eight years.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Why did you move back?”
I just shrug. “It was time to come home.”
There are silent questions in his eyes, ones I’m not ready to answer yet. Soon though, maybe.
“Okay, so you like Chinese and Italian food. What about snacks?”
“What’syourfavourite snack?” I deflect.
