"We'll be fine without you."
"That's what he's afraid of." Fallon leaned in and kissed Sterling's cheek. "I told him while you all can get along without him, you still want him around."
"That's a true statement." Sterling had gone from living at home with his parents, which had been a semi-normalchildhood, to feeling insanely out of place in college. He wasn't smarter than everyone else, that was for sure. But he hadn’t fit in with the intellectuals the same way he had in high school.
And he sure as shit hadn’t gelled with the jocks. He’d played football and baseball. He’d been better than average, but not great and certainly hadn’t been going places with it. However, his friend group had remained close to non-existent. By the time he landed at the CIA, he’d understood why, and it had nothing to do with anyone else but him and his own insecurities about being a walking encyclopedia.
His dad used to tell him he was a fountain of useless information, until someone needed it. Eventually, Sterling had learned to embrace his talent. But that had only lasted a few months until a mission had gone bad. He pushed that thought out of his head and made a beeline for the door, avoiding… everyone. He was tired, and he'd peopled enough today.
He pushed open the back shutters onto the deck and made his way down the wooden steps to the crushed shell of the parking lot.
The night air had cooled but it still held some humidity. That was almost always true for Southwest Florida.
The cicadas sang their usual song in the cypress at the edge of the lot. And somewhere, out past the inlet, a gator bellowed, long and low.
He'd parked his truck under the live oak at the back of the lot. He liked to park back there, in part because no one else ever did, except maybe the police chief. It was also cooler during the day, and he got in some extra steps. He might not be forty-something, like Buddy, but at thirty-eight, he could use the activity.
He was halfway to his truck when he heard the shutter door swing open behind him and a pair of feet hit the crushed shell.
"Hey, wait a second." Juniper scurried across the parking lot.
He turned, and his heart fluttered. The fact that this woman could elicit that response both impressed and annoyed him.
More hair had slipped out of her bun, and it danced around her face under the moonlight, different shades catching the glow. Her smile brightened as she approached.She balanced a paper plate in her hands as she did her best to not trip in a pair of heels, which she usually never wore. But she’d mentioned three times tonight that weddings were made for heels.
"You forgot something," she said.
He patted his back pocket. "I've got my wallet and that has my life in it."
She stumbled to a stop in front of him and pushed out the plate. On it was a slab of white wedding cake, enough for two, with a plastic fork laid neatly across the top. She'd covered it with plastic wrap.
"That's cake," he said.
"It's wedding cake. That I made. From scratch. And there's a ton of leftovers, and it's not like I can serve leftover wedding cake to patrons."
"You could, and everyone would eat it."
"That's absurd," she said. "You're going to take this plate, and you’re going to eat it, and you’re going to like it."
He laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
"That's the spirit."
When he took the plate from her, their fingers brushed at the rim. "Thanks for this," he said. "I'll enjoy it for breakfast."
"That's gross, but I'll take it."
"Have dinner with me." He hadn't planned to ask. He'd told himself a month ago he was done asking. A man had to know when a door wasn't a door, and Juniper's door had been politely closed to him for five months.
But there he was, asking again anyway like a fool with a plate full of cake.
She tilted her head, tucking a piece of her wild hair behind her ears. "You're persistent," she said.
"I've been told."
"I have to admit, I admire that."
"My dad used to tell me persistence was the key to success." He chuckled. "My mom would follow that statement up with how it was also a good way to get locked out of the house."
