Because you’re leaving, I reminded myself.
Yeah. That, too.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rosie
A week after the Masquerade Ball party, two things had become clear.
The first was that as much as I thought it would, what had gone down between Lucas and me in that bathroom stall hadn’t changed anything between us.
His smiles hadn’t grown smaller or fewer in number. Our routine was still the same: he cooked for me every night and I watched him from my post at the kitchen island. After dinner, we binged on our show, and when we slipped in bed—and couch—he asked me how many words I’d written that day, and I asked him to tell me something about his day.
His answers usually included something funny or strange he had seen or experienced that day, and mine a decent word count.
Finally.
Because I was writing. Our experiment, our research, even if technically incomplete, was already working. For better or for worse, I was beginning to realize that Lucas might be the closest thing I’d ever have to a muse. And that was… exhilarating and terrifying.
We were friends. We lived together. We went on dates that were not real, that weren’t meant to make a relationship move forward. We shared hot, intimate, hushed moments in bathroom stalls and went on like they hadn’t been more than a dream.
Which brought me to the second thing I’d realized: I was playing a dangerous game. Because as much as this whole thing was helping me, the fact that Lucas’s stay in New York—in my life—had an expiration date was starting to take more and more space in my mind. It was starting to make me desperate to grab every single thing I could take from him before he left. Not for Rosie, Date Night. But for Rosie, Every Other Night.
And I seemed willing to ignore the consequences. The price. Like ignoring I could still feel the imprint of his hands on my skin, or pretending I couldn’t summon the words he’d whispered in my ear. We’d made a pact anyway. We’d said we wouldn’t let the experiment change things between us, affect our friendship. He’d promised he wouldn’t fall in love with me, for crying out loud. And that was probably why nothing had changed for him after the Masquerade Ball.
“You done with this, Rosie?” Sally—the barista at my favorite café in Manhattan—said, jolting me back to reality. She balanced a tray on her hip. “I’ll take your mug away if you are.”
“Yes, thank you.” I grabbed my empty mug and plate for her. “The new cinnamon rolls are amazing, by the way. I’m thinking of taking a couple of them home.”
Because Lucas would love them.
“Want another one for now? Looks like you’re working.” She pointed at the laptop sitting on the table. “You can use some extra fuel.”
“No, thanks. I think I’m going to start wrapping up and head home soon.”
With a nod, she placed everything on the tray and walked back to the counter.
As I finished saving my security backup, a man near the counter caught my attention. He wore a sleek black tux and was tapping his foot on the floor. He stood out like a sore thumb in the casual atmosphere of the coffee shop.
Just like it used to happen once upon a time, my head started imagining the possible scenarios that had brought him here. Maybe he was on his way to a gala, not exactly unusual in Manhattan. Or perhaps he was returning from one and was in sheer need of caffeine. Or who knew, maybe he had slipped unnoticed out of an event and what I’d thought was impatience was actually him fighting the urge to bolt before getting caught. He could be a… runaway groom.
Runaway groom leaves bride at the altar and falls in love at first sight with a barista. Or the pastry master. Or the patron that he spills coffee all over in his haste to escape.
I was smiling to myself, thinking that would be a romance book I’d love to read, when the man turned around and met my gaze.
His eyes widened with recognition.
Runaway Groom was Aiden Castillo, the contractor.
He waved a tentative hand and I returned the gesture with a nod. Then he collected his order and strode in my direction. And as he did, I couldn’t help but notice that I’d overlooked how handsome Aiden Castillo was that day we’d met.
“You look great, Mr. Castillo,” I blurted absently when he reached my table. His eyebrows arched and I shook my head. “Which is a weird way of saying, hi, how are you?”
Mr. Castillo laughed. “I’m doing good, and thank you, I appreciate the compliment.” He lowered his voice as if he was letting me into a secret: “Although if I’m being completely honest… I hate the tux and after the day I’ve had, I’m dying to get it off.”