Page 42 of Waiting for You

I hadn't been able to blink it out of my head since.

"I don't care," I lied. "You have a girlfriend. That's not a variable I should be worried about. You built a life. It's been eight years. Of course you should move on and be happy."

"Have you?" he challenged.

"Yes," I lied again.

He was quiet a long moment. "Okay," he accepted. "We agreed on the sidewalk to be friends. So that's what we'll be. I'm calling strictly as a concerned friend. I just wanted to know you're safe."

"Thank you," I said, my voice empty. "You don't need to worry about me anymore."

"Okay," he repeated.

The call disconnected.

I set the phone on the counter and stared into my own hollow eyes in the mirror. Then I finished my mascara, grabbed my bag, and walked out to meet Andrew Maxwell.

I hopped out of the taxi a few minutes early, stood on the sunlit pavement outside the café, and peered through the big glass window.

A man sat alone at a quiet corner table, scrolling through his phone, his broad shoulders relaxed, his posture the easy confidence of a man comfortable waiting. Even seated, his height was obvious. He had styled blond hair, a shade lighter at the tips, cropped clean at the nape. When he glanced up and caught the door, his eyes were a vivid blue, lighter than I'd expected, his face open and anchored by a strong jaw.

My treacherous second thought: He's handsome, but not as handsome as Xavier.

I took a breath and pushed the glass door open.

He stood as I approached, flashing a warm smile. "Sloane."

"Andrew." I nodded. "Hi."

"Hi." He gestured at the empty chair. "Please, sit. I ordered a black coffee, but I can flag the waiter for whatever you'd like."

"Black coffee's perfect." I slid into the seat.

He sat. His blue eyes dropped to my bare arms, taking in the ink before meeting my gaze. "Your father neglected to mention you had full sleeves. Those are incredible."

"Thank you." I smiled. "Though I don't get why corporate types always make such a big deal out of them. Tattoos are mainstream at this point. Half the city has one."

"It's not just the volume of ink," he corrected, leaning forward. "It's that you project a very specific, intimidating bad-girl energy."

I laughed. "There's nothing bad-girl about me. I'm a chronic introvert who happens to run a business and likes drawing permanent art on people's skin."

"I don't buy the introvert claim." His eyes crinkled.

"I'm a clinically serious introvert."

"You walked into this crowded café and made me feel like we've known each other for years," he argued. "That's not an introverted trait."

"That's a professional skill," I corrected. "I consult with nervous clients every day. I've learned how to impersonate an extrovert to keep the business running."

He leaned in, resting his elbows on the table. "So what kind of person are you, then?"

He asked me about the studio, and as I explained the business, he listened. His blue eyes stayed on my face, never drifting toward the door, never checking his phone, never waiting for his turn to talk. He asked me to describe the most meaningful piece I'd ever designed, and I told him the story of the rebirth infinity loop, the piece that left my young client frozen and wide-eyed when she finally saw it finished. He asked what rebirth meant to me, and I paused to think before I gave him a real answer. He offered his own take, and the conversation just cascaded forward.

He was attractive, not only the symmetry of his face, though that was flawless, but the rare quality of his full attention. He leaned in when a topic caught him, and he had the easy humility to laugh at his own bad jokes.

He was a good man. Or he played the part well.

I checked my phone and the clock had jumped. We'd been at that tiny table for three hours.