“What about my fans?” Sebastian asks. “I have creepy fans too, right?”
“Seriously? You’re mad because I get more stalkers than you?”
He tilts his chin up. “Please. I had my first stalker at eight months. Before the Olsen twins, even. You could never keep up.”
Emma rolls her eyes. “Face it, Sebastian. The crazy girls love you, but they love Chase more.”
“It’s his hair, isn’t it? He has great hair.” Sebastian turns to me. “So, go use that great hair and get your girl.”
Emma nods. “You’re the king of the pretty boys. She won’t be able to resist.”
“I told you, it’s not—”
“Like that. I know. And I don’t care. Now, let’s get back to work.”
The next morning, I stare out the window of the black SUV cruising through the streets of San Francisco. The sunrise is a pink bruise in the sky. My eyes are gritty, and I need a shave.
“I have one stop to make before the hotel, Duncan.”
Typewriter Girl once told me she works the morning shift at Books & Buns, a bookstore and café. I confirmed that the bookstore doesn’t open until 9:00 a.m., but the café’s portion opens at six. When I looked up the address before I left New York, I discovered it’s just a block from the antique shop in Noe Valley where I wrote to her that first year. Does she live in the neighborhood, as well as work there?
I scrub a hand across my face and gaze at my tired reflection in the car window. Guilt gnaws at me for breaking the confidentiality I insisted on, but I’ll check on her this one time to make sure she’s safe, and then I’ll be gone. I’ll never have any peace until I know she’s fine.
“It’s a little early for a stop, isn’t it, Mr. James?”
“I want to get some coffee. There’s a café around the corner from the hotel.” I reserved a room at an exclusive boutique hotel a few blocks from the bookstore. It’s reasonable to stop for coffee. Nothing too stalker-ish about that, right?
“Are you sure that’s wise, sir?”
“I just want some coffee. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m Chase, and you damn well know it.”
“I can’t call you Chase. It doesn’t keep the appropriate professional distance.” He sounds affronted.
I snort. “And does appropriate professional distance also include giving me unsolicited advice?”
“Consider it a bonus of my protection duties, Mr. James.”
I tell Duncan the address of the café, and he enters it into his phone. The quiet streets and colorful houses whir by as excitement builds. I’m getting closer to her.
“We’re almost there.”
I take a deep breath. What I’m about to do is stupid. But that knowledge won’t stop me. Not at all.
CHAPTER 9
Olivia
I arrange the muffins, cinnamon buns, and breakfast sandwiches in the display case and pour myself a giant cup of coffee from the first pot of the day.
Audrey comes to work when the bookshop opens at nine, so it’s only me in the café with the early birds. It took a while for me to get used to the hour, but I’ve grown to love the quiet morning rituals of readying the shop for opening as soft music plays in the background and the city wakes around me.
When Audrey took over the bookshop from her aunt, she expanded the café hours to take advantage of the regulars from the neighborhood who want to fuel up with expensive caffeinated drinks and our famous cinnamon buns before heading to work. With Noe Valley rent, an indie bookstore isn’t easy to keep afloat, even one with a rich history in the neighborhood. Audrey is always thinking of ways to bring in extra revenue, from hosting poetry slams and book clubs to renting out the space for special events.
I sip my coffee and gaze out at the still-dark morning. My free hand feels empty, like a phantom limb, without my old phone resting in it. During this quiet time, in the break between getting the café ready and the first customers, I would often text with Remington, depending on the time zone he was in. Now that he’s not on the other side of my phone, I realize how much he filled the spaces of my life. And how much I need to find new people and activities to fill those old voids. People I can see and touch.
The door jingles as I’m pouring a second cup of coffee, and a tall guy in a hoodie walks in. He isn’t one of our morning regulars. I shiver a little, watching him. His face hides in the shadows of his hood, except for the thick scruff on a strong, aggressively masculine jaw. His body is rangy but powerful, and that, combined with his obscured face, makes me apprehensive. The mystery writer in me is already coming up with plots for him as either the hero or the villain.