Page 50 of Dying to Meet You
She folds the check and the carbon into thirds and tuck them into her shoe. Then she picks up her stack of folders and hastily finishes her filing.
As she works, the pilfered check itches against her foot, and she can’t shake the feeling that Mr. Wincott will somehow know what she’s done.
BECAUSE YOU’RE A STUPID BITCH, CORALIE.
The voice in her head startles her, and she has to take a deep breath.
She glances around the office and then out the window. Often, she has the prickly sensation of being watched.
You never know where the eyes are. Some days it feels like they’re everywhere.
17
Natalie
Her mother would kill her for riding her bike with no helmet, but she doesn’t want to flatten her hair. Besides, her mom would kill hertwiceif she knew where Natalie was going.
She takes it slow, sticking to the streets with bike lanes, even if it means she’s going to be a few minutes late. Being late is not a problem anyway. She doesn’t want to seem too eager.
It’s not a long trip, and soon she’s one turn away from the bakery café. The meeting spot was her idea. It feels like a safe choice. Casual.
The whole plan is rock solid. So why does she feel like throwing up?
Pausing at the last light, she takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone to check her Instagram. When she sees a new message from him, her heart veers sideways.
He’s going to cancel. She just knew it. She’s half disgusted, half relieved.
But no. The message says,
I’m at a table in back. Hope you like cookies, but I didn’t want to guess what you drink.
A surge of anxiety swirls through her belly. She stashes the phone, turns the last corner, and approaches the shop. There’s a bike rack right outside, and she takes her time parking, giving herself the option to bail. She could turn around right now and go home.
But of course, she doesn’t. She throws back her shoulders and opens the door.
And, yup, when she flicks her eyes toward the back wall, she sees him. He looks just like the videos she found on Instagram. Longish hair downto his shoulders and a slim mustache. It looks cool, though, not trashy. More Keanu than Snape.
His band posts promo clips on social media. Playing in a bar. Playing at a wedding. Playing on a party boat in the bay.
She’d left a comment on a recent video.Looks like fun.
She’d basically dared him to notice her, and it worked.
The very next day he requested a connection. Her account is private, so she let the request sit there while she wrestled with herself. In the end, her curiosity outweighed her anger.
She’d answered him, and they’d started talking. Just a little at first. And then multiple times a day. That was a couple of weeks ago. Now she’s a nervous wreck.
Stalling, she heads for the counter, where she orders an iced hibiscus peach tea with lime and mint.
“Two ninety-five,” the cashier requests.
At the last minute, she decides the order sounds too childish. “Wait. Sorry. Can I have a cappuccino instead?”
The cashier gives her a withering look and rings it up again.
She drops a dollar into the tip jar and scrolls her phone while she waits, fighting the urge to finger-comb her hair or check her outfit. This morning she changed her clothes, like seven times. She wants to look good, but also doesn’t want to look like she’s trying to impress him.
It’s a fine line. She’d settled on faded jeans and a Post Malone T-shirt. No makeup.
