Page 21 of The Exit Strategy

It’s a sound that awakens all the parts of me that died six years ago, so some sick, selfish part of me doesn’t care that it’s at my expense.

Friends, I remind myself for the hundredth time today.

My phone buzzes.

Fen& Tonic:

Fen: Day one survival check. Did Spite-Berry commit any felonies?

Hudson: My money’s on a misdemeanor.

Nolan: Just check in, Cole.

I stare at the screen. There’s so much I could say. That she’s brilliant. That she’s already moving in the direction it took me two months to find. That she made my kitchen feel like a war zone and home at the same time. That The Haven residents adopted her before lunch and she hasn’t lashed out at them even once.

That when she laughs, the whole house heats by ten degrees.

Instead, I type one word.

Cole: Fine.

And for the first time in six years, I mean it the way I’ve always hated becausefinecarries the weight of everything I cannot say.

5

DEATH BY DECAF

JUNIE

It’s taken me a week,but I’ve finally developed a non-work-related routine here at The Haven.

Wake up. Stare at the ceiling of the garage apartment that, for some reason, always smells like lavender and old wood. Avoid the mirror because the bags under my eyes have their own zip code. Drink copious amounts of coffee. And my favorite, plot psychological warfare against Cole Whittaker.

It’s the last part that gets me out of bed each morning.

And today, my sabotage is a three-pronged attack. First, I swapped his coffee for decaf. The man drinks a full pot before nine and still looks as though he hasn’t slept since the Obama administration, so this should be interesting. He won’t notice the switch because I bought the same brand and resealed the bag with a hair straightener.

Spite requires attention to detail.

My second and third objectives will hit him when he least expects it.

Hudson would absolutely chew me out for my antics, but a girl’s got to survive her first heartbreak somehow. Pettyrevenge is harmless fun, and it’s what’s getting me through this forced proximity with Cole.

By the time he wanders into my conference room, I’m settled at the table with my laptop open and an expression of complete innocence. Since this room is technically a formal living room, it’s open on one side, and I can hear every move he makes.

“Morning,” he says.

“Mr. Whittaker.” I don’t look up, but I do use the tone I reserve for men who think their very existence warrants a fan club.

Cole takes a sip of his coffee and frowns. He pulls the mug to eye level as though it personally offended him, then takes another sip.

I bite my lip so I don’t give myself away.

“Does this taste?—”

“I wouldn’t know. I brought my own.” I lift my Grounds for Celebration cup as evidence. As much as I planned to avoid this shop on principle alone, they sucked me in like a moth to a flame, and now I’m slightly addicted.

He drinks the coffee anyway, because Cole Whittaker’s allergic to admitting that anything in his vicinity is out of his control. He would sit in a burning building and call it a warm draft if he wasn’t the one to find an extinguisher.