Page 191 of Unsuitable

This song reminds me of Kas. It was playing that night in the club when he sabotaged my date with Cooper and was waiting for me outside the restroom.

I like to torture myself with it every now and then.

Sad, but I like to think of myself as being the one singing the lyrics to Kas.

I’m telling him that he will never find anyone who will love him like I would love him. Do love him.

And, yes, I’m that sad.

In Kas’s mind, I’m probably just a bad memory of a time that he’d rather forget.

He walked away. He was right to.

And, now, he’s probably moved on to some gorgeous Greek beauty who isn’t saddled with a world of emotional baggage and who doesn’t remind him of death and other things I choose not to think about because, if I do, my head might explode.

Actually, it’s feeling close to explosion now, so I focus on cleaning the coffee machine.

I’m halfway through cleaning it when Zayn has finished, and now, John Legend is singing “All of Me.” I’m getting all emotional, singing along to the lyrics, wishing someone—okay, Kas—felt that way about me, thought those things about me, when the door chimes, opening.

Who’s that? I put the Closed sign up. Some people just don’t pay attention.

Sucking in a breath, blinking my eyes clear, I turn around. “I’m sorry. We’re clo—” The words die on my tongue, and my heart falls out of my chest.

“Kas,” I breathe his name, like I expect him to disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Hi, Daisy.” His words are soft, tentative.

And my brain is failing me.

I don’t know how many times I’ve pictured this scenario in my head. That I’d be here late, and he’d walk in, telling me that he missed me. That he regretted leaving. That he couldn’t get over me. That he loved me. And then I would jump into his arms, and he’d kiss me. Then, everything would be like it was.

I watch too many chick flicks, I know.

But he is here. And, now, I can’t move or speak or do anything but stare at him.

He looks exactly the same. Like no time has passed at all.

I’m suddenly conscious of how I look.

Dressed in black trousers and a black polo shirt with the coffee shop’s logo. My hair is tied back into a messy bun. I have no makeup on because I cried it all off earlier.

I look terrible.

And he looks beautiful.

His hair is shorter than it used to be, and he has some serious stubble going on. I always did love stubble on him. He’s wearing a checkered navy-blue suit with a white shirt. Similar to what he was wearing the first day I met him.

And he looks like everything I ever wanted but never got to have. Not really.

I’m still staring at him. I’m afraid to blink in case this is all a mirage conjured up by my desperate imagination, and he won’t be here when I open my eyes.

Damn air-conditioning dries my eyes, and I blink.

When my eyes open, he’s still here.

“How…where…how?” I’m stammering. I stop and take a deep breath, resting my palm on the counter. The cool top calms me some.

He’s here. He’s really here.