They march to the living room and then upstairs, voice fading but still clear enough for me to hear the full conversation.
And it’s definitely about a band.
Zen’s door shuts. I fully expect they’re either planning on giving me the silent treatment for the rest of the day for lying to Mimi, or they’re planning to chew me out for making them an unwilling accomplice.
The right thing to do is to warm up something from the fridge—there’s leftover chicken noodle soup and it’s calling my name, and our kombucha is basically perfect—and go spend a few hours locked in my own room doing the sixth wooden puzzle I’ve started since we got here.
This one’s a bright phoenix with particularly intricate puzzle pieces.
Instead, I’m heading back to the living room window and peeking outside.
She hasn’t left yet.
Looks like she got a phone call.
Who’s she talking to? What’s it about? Should I go out there right now and apologize?
I need to rip off that bandage. Just do it. Get it over with.
“You know you have zero chance with her if you destroy her café, right?” Zen says from the landing above me.
I jump. “I don’t date.”
“Everyone else at that speed dating meeting thought you left because you don’t people well,” they say. “But you can’t fool me. And you’re in over your head with this Super Villain Man bullshit. No shame in changing course, Uncle Grey. No matter what changing course looks like.”
I know this.
They know I know this.
And they know I won’t strike back for their brutal honesty.
“Has Sabrina found anything yet?” I ask.
“If she had, don’t you think she would’ve told you?”
Fair enough.
Fuck.
22
Sabrina
Work is as uncomfortable as it’s ever been Saturday morning.
Grey’s being nice to me.
Nice might not be the right word.
He’s actually been mostly pleasant in the nearly two weeks since he got here. Or he’s been the irresistible hottie who keeps doing all the right things to make me want to kiss him again.
Since the gazebo, I feel like we’ve been playing this game of who will break first, and how much will we both enjoy it?
Like it’s inevitable that we’ll try to work this out between the sheets, even though it won’t give either of us what we want outside of a bedroom.
But the bigger problem?
He’s acting like he doesn’t know what I did yesterday.
Which either means he’s that good, or he actually doesn’t know.
Not like I had a lot of options.
I cannot find a damn thing on Chandler.
And I’m not bothering Emma with that question when I’ve been pussyfooting around debating with myself if I want to talk to her.
Midmorning, when I drop off a fresh tea at his seat—which I would do for any regular, for the record—he stops me. “Hold on a second.”
“Don’t like chai anymore?”
“Hmm? Oh, no. Chai is perfect. Thank you. I just got the bill for last week’s food delivery.”
I brace myself.
“Thank you for managing that.”
Decker’s hanging out at a window table, noise-canceling headphones over his ears, but I don’t miss the look he slides me.
It’s one hundred percent is the dude playing mind games with you?
Yes, I handled the food like I always do, but I added in a few extra treats for the crew, and I know it’s pushing the bottom line.
And I know he’s enough of a numbers guy to notice, and he probably knows I’m a good enough manager that I’ll make up the difference in the next two weeks.
If I care to.
“It’s what I do,” I say.
“I know. Thank you.” Grey sips his tea, closes his eyes briefly, and sighs, a slight smile tipping his lips, and then nods to me once more. “Also, let the staff know I’m changing the time off structure. You all work too hard and deserve more vacation time.”
I catch my jaw before it hits the floor.
“Does this mean you’re letting Bean & Nugget stay as it is?”
Blue eyes lift to mine.
My heart stops beating.
Just flails to a stop, like a fish that’s finally quit trying to get back in the stream.
We have an audience.
It’s not just Decker.
Three ladies from a local knitting group who come here every Thursday morning are watching. So is one of my mom’s closest friends.
“No, but good effort,” Grey says.