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“You didn’t have to come.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you?”
Because I spent ten years wanting to do ordinary shit with you.
Fix your oven.
Drink your coffee.
Listen to you complain about customers.
Because I’d give every fucking dollar I’ve made to get those years back.
Instead, I shrug.
“Wasn’t busy.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe a word of it.
Smart girl.
The bell above the front door jingles.
“Autumn!”
A man in a navy polo strolls toward the counter.
Mid-thirties. Expensive watch. Hair slicked back with enough product to grease a transmission.
Autumn’s smile tightens.
“Hi, Brent.”
“Looking gorgeous as always.” He leans against the counter. “You never called me.”
“I told you, I’m not interested.”
“Come on. One dinner. You might surprise yourself.”
“I’m pretty sure I won’t.”
He laughs like she’s flirting.
She’s not.
I know the difference.
“You’re breaking my heart, sweetheart.”
My jaw tightens.
Sweetheart?
This prick has about five seconds to find another word.
Autumn reaches for a pastry bag.
