Page 42 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
I’ve discovered an extraordinary creature who lives there.
“What’ll it be today?”
“I need a triple espresso, a Venti chai latte, a Tall Americano, and . . .” I eyeball the refrigerated display in front of the counter. “Ooh! One of those lemon bar thingies. The big one on the end.”
The barista smiles at me. “You and your lemon bars. You should try our new double chocolate chunk brownie, they’re really popular.”
I shrug, handing over a twenty. “I’m more of a sour girl than a sweet.”
“No way, Chloe, you’re totally sweet.” He smiles wider, flirting.
I shake my head and walk to the end of the counter to await my order.
I’ve been coming to this Starbucks nearly every day since I opened Fleuret, and all the baristas know me by name. Pathetic, I know, but people in the flower business are total caffeine addicts. You would be too if you had to go to work in the dark every morning, then stand on your feet for twelve hours, wielding a wickedly sharp design knife that you’d cut yourself with every so often. As in, five times a day. Some of the junior designers use clippers, but a knife is a much faster tool to arrange with, so that’s what I use.
Hence the sorry state of my hands. Today, for example, I have a Band-Aid wrapped around the tip of my left thumb, a slice on the middle finger of my right hand that isn’t healing as well as it should be because of the dirt lodged in it, nicks on both my pinkies, and the usual calluses galore on my palms. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I’ll never be a hand model.
I pick up the Times and browse the front page while I wait, until I become aware that someone stands silently brooding a few feet away to my left. Brooding, and staring right at me.
When I lift my head, I’m looking at Eric.
He’s in uniform. His eyes are bloodshot, his shirt is wrinkled, and he’s unshaven. He looks like he’s just woken up from a three-week bender.
My heart thumping, I set the paper back on its rack. “Eric . . . hi.”
Unsmiling, he nods slowly. “Chloe.”
“How are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Finally he says, “I’ve been better.”
I can see that. At the same time I realize I don’t like it, that I don’t want him to suffer for any reason, especially if it’s on my account, he says quietly, “Not that it’s your concern.”
That stings. In fact, it hurts. He must see it on my face, because he steps closer, lifting a hand as if to touch me. He thinks better of it and lets it fall to his waist.
“I’m not trying to be a jerk.”
I look away. “Okay.” What does he want me to say?
After a moment, he wordlessly takes my arm. He gently steers me through the morning crowd into the back hallway near the bathrooms. I let him, wondering if I’ve thrown away a perfectly good man for a long shot bet on a dark horse that probably won’t pay off anyway.
We stop beside the payphone. He keeps his hand on my arm.
“Look at me.”
I do. He’s solemn, but not angry. I have to stop myself from brushing the hair off his forehead that’s about to fall into his eyes.
“I mean it, I’m not trying to be a jerk. I just . . . you can’t know what that felt like for me.”
But I can imagine. It’s not a pretty picture. My voice small, I say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else I can say. It was a terrible mistake, one I wish I could undo. I never intended to do that. I never meant to hurt you. I really, really apologize.”
I flounder for anything else to say. He lets me writhe in agonizing silence for a while, watching me squirm. He removes his hand from my arm, and lowers it to casually rest on the butt of his sidearm. I find the simple move incredibly menacing.
Then he asks abruptly, “Did you sleep with him while we were together?”
My head rears back. “No!”
I can tell he believes me. His eyes glow with intensity. He moves closer. “You just fooled around with him then?”
