Page 100 of Broken Pieces
I sink into the uneven chair, spine aching, and start working through the pile.
Math, mostly. Numbers that blur if I stare too long.
Time slips.
The light changes through the window, stretching across the table until it hits the edge of my paper. Sheets are scattered everywhere, my pen smudging across the margin.
I reach for my phone and fire off a text to Cassie.
Skylar: WTF is question 9 even asking? did she say we had to do all of it?
Cassie replies within seconds.
Cassie: Absolutely not the point right now.
Cassie: Are you staring at Mr tall, dark and angry?
Cassie: Tell me he doesn’t always walk around shirtless because that should be illegal.
I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then I lock the phone and set the screen face down on the table.
Nope.
No fucking way am I touching that.
I let out a sigh and pick my phone back up. I unlock it again, thumb hesitating for half a second before I open the job listings.
I scroll slowly.
Barista.
Waitress.
Shelf stacker.
Anything with a pay check to keep me from being someone else’s responsibility.
I need my own money. My own space, my own way out.
Zane didn’t ask for this. And I don’t want to be another mess he has to clean up.
The door swings open, and Zane strolls in with that slow, loose-hipped walk that shouldn’t make my chest tight but it fucking does. Grease smudged on his jaw. T-shirt clinging to his shoulders like it’s part of his skin. Jeans riding low on his hips.
He doesn’t say shit as he walks to the table, and drops a crumpled brown bag beside my notebook.
He grabs two forks from the drawer.
I keep my head down. But every damn step, every shift in the air, pulls at me. And fuck, I hate being this fucking aware of him.
He comes back over and drops into the chair opposite mine and pulls two containers out of the bag.
Noodles. The greasy hot kind. The smell of soy and garlic hits hard.
He puts one container in front of me on top of my papers.
“Eat,” he mutters finally.
