Page 61 of Wait With Me
“You’re not pretending to be anyone,” Dean corrects, adjusting his glasses to pin me with a serious look. “You are Mercedes. You are Kate. You need to quit looking at them like they’re two different people because they are both you. You’re the porn writer and the friend. You’re the bestselling author and the neighbor. You don’t have to keep the two sides of yourself separate. Let them merge. Maybe the Kate part of yourself that you’re holding back will be exactly what brings you and Miles together.”
I look over the counter at Dean. My friend. My true friend who I’ve become so comfortable with the past couple of years. He’s sitting here, giving me advice on how to win over a dude that I’m rejecting him for. Whatever asshole tendencies he may have on occasion, he’s still a really frickin’ good person as a whole.
“Thanks, Dean.” I smile softly.
He exhales heavily. “Does this mean we can we go back to being friends again? You’re like one of four people I actually like in Boulder. Losing you would be a huge deficit in my social life.”
“Of course, we’re friends.” I smile and shake my head. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to start cleaning my own gutters.”
He laughs and rakes his hands through his hair in frustration. “I’m hoping you can work out this thing with Miles. I’m tired of being Lynsey’s and your damn handyman. Especially because I’m not fucking handy. I’ve told you both this. If you need help with investments, I got you. But pretty soon, I’m going to start drawing the line at favors that make me sweat.”
“Yeah, yeah…whatever, Dean.”
With double smiles, we clink our coffee mugs and get back to being exactly what we were always meant to be. Just friends. Great friends.
I’m stir-crazy this week at the shop. Something is off between Mercedes and me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. She’s been in and out of the comfort center. We do our regular flirting thing where I come in and eat cookies, and she asks me about my day. It’s nice. It’s friendly. But it’s limited. She hasn’t asked me to help her with any more book research, and I guess I’m just wondering what she’s waiting for.
Our camping trip was amazing. More than amazing. Spending a full twenty-four hours with a person and not wanting to kill them means you’ve really found a true friend. And that’s how I see her still. A friend. So why does it feel like she’s still holding a part of her back from me?
I head up to the counter to find Sam and see if he wants to go get a drink this weekend. I need to talk this shit out, so I’m not fucking up vehicles or losing any fingers this week with my wandering thoughts.
Sam’s standing at the end of the long, high top counter where the customer service agents all check people in. I sidle up next to him, my coveralls still on, but not so dirty that I felt like I had to take them off first.
“Hey,” I say, and he looks up from his computer.
“Hey, man,” he says with a smile that’s practically hidden under his red beard.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask as he pulls the Bluetooth device out of his ear.
“Nothing,” he replies with a shrug. “Beers?”
I nod and slow blink.
“That bad?” he guesses.
I inhale deeply and finger the piece of red licorice behind my ear. “I’m just…in a rut, and I don’t know. I need something.”
“I’ve been seeing Mercedes in the comfort center,” he says, clearly already picking up where my mind is at. “Is she here today?”
I shake my head. “I haven’t seen her yet.”
He furrows his brow. “You guys good?”
I shrug. “I think so? I don’t know. That’s partially why I need a drink.”
“Say no more,” he replies with a congenial smile.
A light reflects off the front door as two blond guys walk into the reception area. They look about the same age as Sam and me. Maybe a little younger. They also look like they do nothing but lay out because their tans are way too perfect.
But above all that, there’s something about the way they hold themselves as they walk that has my alerts pinging. I decide to stick around and hold my spot at the counter.
Sam is busy typing something into his computer when the guy in a pink polo flicks his keys up on the counter. “I have a flat. I need it fixed.”
I cringe at his rudeness and slide my gaze to the other guy who’s decked out in a bright, neon green golf shirt. It’s fucking blinding.
Sam smiles politely at Pink Polo. “Okay, what’s your name and what kind of car are we talking about?”
“Why does that matter?” the guy snaps. “It’s a tire. Just need it repaired quickly because I have a tee time to make.”
