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“That I need to figure shit out and stop being so selfish.”
“You don’t seem selfish,” I say. He gave me that hug in my apartment when it was so clear I needed one, and now he’s checking in on how I’m doing. Hewasa bit of an ass in the Uber, though. And I’ve met him all of three times, so I suppose I can’t know for sure.
“Well, I am,” he says, then reaches for his radio as a voice breaks through the frequency. It’s his partner, telling him to hurry up; they just got dispatched to their next call. I’m sure it’ll be more thrilling than this noise complaint. “On my way,” he says into his radio, then regards me intently. “I get off at seven. I’m going to grab breakfast at Eddie’s on Fulton Street before I go home to sleep for an eternity. Meet me there?”
“What?” I take a perplexed step back from him. “Why?”
“You just said your friends don’t get it. I do.”
“But—”
“But what?” he cuts me off. “It’s just breakfast and conversation, Gracie. There’s not much to lose, is there?”
And as he walks off, I resign myself to gaping after him. He walks with almost a swagger, his duty belt shifting against his hips. Before he turns the corner, he casts a fleeting glance over his shoulder to enjoy my astounded expression one more time.
WESTON
Maybe I should have made it clearer that IwantedGracie to meet me. It’s twenty minutes after seven and there’s still no sign of her. I swirl the dregs of my filter coffee around inside my mug, fighting off the exhaustion of working overnight, and then turn back to the window. Working nights always fucks with me. While the city is waking up for the day, I’m winding down. More cars whizz by, more pedestrians fill the streets, and a stream of customers come and go from the diner. Eddie’s Café is a tiny, old-school diner on the corner that serves the best breakfasts around here, and their hash browns are the only thing that keeps me going through my twelve-hour shifts. It’s not the most glamorous of places, but it doesn’t need to be.
I’m tired, and starving, and there’s no way Gracie is coming. I tear my eyes from the window and grab the menu, even though my order never changes, and wave over the poor waitress who I’ve repeatedly told to give me one more second. It’s obvious I’ve been waiting for someone, and even more obvious that they now haven’t shown up. The waitress whisks over with a pot of coffee to refill my mug and I order a Denver omelet and hash browns. A filling breakfast is always enough to knock me straight to sleep by the time I get back to my apartment.
I suppress a yawn and take a swig of the fresh coffee, but pause with the mug hovering by my lips. The bell above the door jingles as Gracie enters. She’s wearing sunglasses even though it’s overcast, but I recognize her petite frame and copper-blond hair. As she scans the small, bustling diner, her shoulders visibly relax when she spots me in a booth by the furthest window.
She weaves hastily through the tables and slides into the booth opposite me. The very first words out of her mouth are, “You are so cruel asking me to meet you here at this time. You remember I was drunk seven hours ago, right?”
“Good morning,” I say, keeping my expression nonchalant. I’d rather not make Gracie aware that I find amusement in how terrible she looks. “I’m not the only one who needs coffee right now. Do you want something to eat?” I raise a hand again to call the waitress back over.
“Coffee sounds good,” Gracie mumbles, but recoils when I push a menu across the table. She must be really hungover if evenpicturesof food make her queasy, even though she didn’t seem wasted last night. Tipsy, sure. Maybe she’s just a lightweight. Sheistiny.
“Coffee for her too, please,” I tell the waitress, and she returns with a mug and pours Gracie some much-required caffeine. Gracie grabs the coffee and gulps half of it while I stare at her with one eyebrow raised. “That bad?”
“That bad,” she confirms. She wraps her hands around the mug for warmth, brings it to her chest, and relaxes back against the booth. Her sunglasses remain firmly planted over her eyes. “How was the rest of your shift? Catch any bad guys?”
“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Couple traffic citations, threw some woman in the drunk tank, brought a guy in for a warrant. Real blood-pumping stuff,” I say with mock enthusiasm. She doesn’t know that the noise complaint against her was the highlight of my shift. Watching her squirm at the sight of me as her cheeks flushed pink .?.?. Incredible.
“Sounds .?.?. interesting,” she says.
“It wasn’t.” I mirror her actions, leaning back, getting comfortable. I’m still surprised she appeared. It’s seven thirty on a Saturday, and it’s a lot to ask of a perfect stranger to meet me here at this time. “I didn’t think you were coming. I already ordered without you.”
“I wasn’t going to. I was asleep twenty minutes ago,” she admits, pressing her lips to the rim of her mug. Even behind her sunglasses, I sense her eyes locked carefully on mine. “But you made a valid point. Youarethe only other person I know right now whose world has just imploded, and maybe .?.?.”
“Maybe .?.?. ?” I prompt.
She sips her coffee purposefully before answering, “Maybe you wouldn’t be the worst person out there to teach me a thing or two. In fact, I think you might be the perfect person.”
Now I’m confused. “Teach you a thing or two?” I repeat.
Our lives have taken similar turns and Gracie has been the only person I felt comfortable discussing Charlotte with, even though the moments were brief and fleeting. Cameron is understanding in most ways and I have no reason to hold back my feelings around him, but with a stranger, it’s just easier. The words flow better. How can there be fear of judgment when you don’t even know the person? It’s why I invited Gracie here. I thought we could unload on one another, but now she’s gone in a different direction.
“You said you were selfish. That you put yourself first,” she says, and I narrow my eyes at the reminder. It’s true, but I don’t want her to believe it. “Well, I need to learn how to do that. I’ve never put myself first, and it’s time I lived for me and no one else.”
I squint at her, reading her expression. Her jaw is set with determination as though her mind has been made up for a while. She straightens her shoulders and presses her lips into a firm line. My lack of response frustrates her, but I have no idea what the hell she actually wants from me.
“Well? Can you, Weston?”
There’s weight behind my name, and I don’t know why I tense at the sound of it. Her voice is sweet, buttery, yet my name sounds fierce. My curiosity about her strengthens. “Why did you say my name like that?”
“You mean the same way you said my name last night? Like a challenge?” She sets her mug down on the table with a clink, then rests her elbows on the table and lifts her sunglasses. Those pale blue eyes so similar to Charlotte’s fix on me, but they are unreadable.
