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“Kinda hard to find a fairy tale in this day and age, babe,” I said to her back, watching as she rested her forehead on the cupboard for a second before pulling it open and grabbing two mugs.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” she said. “I’m being nice and making you a coffee for not letting me die of bullet wounds,” she told me. “You can bring the cup back with the saline later,” she added, making it clear that she wasn’t inviting me to stay and drink it.
Which was probably a good thing.
Because my mind wasn’t on what it should have been on right about then.
“Appreciate it.”
“How do you take it?”
“Cream and sugar. Extra sugar,” I added. To that, she shot me a smile over her shoulder. “What?”
“Nothing. It’s just… big, scary mafia guys in movies always drink their coffee black, I guess. But I take it the same way,” she added, going into the fridge for the creamer. “Okay. Salvatore, a coffee for the road,” she said as she held the mug out to me.
I Put the Lit in Literature.
Her one had a picture of a raven with the wordNevermorebeneath it.
“The blessing and curse of being a teacher,” she said as she caught me looking at them. “Your students help you amass an insane mug collection.”
My hand moved out, reaching for my mug, my fingers deliberately sliding against hers as I did so, watching the way the heat flickered in her eyes again before she snatched her hand back, and grabbed her own mug instead.
“I guess I will see you in a week,” she said, clearly wanting me out of her apartment.
But was that because she didn’t want me there?
Or because she did?
Jesus Christ.
What was going on with me?
“Name of the diner you work at, babe,” I demanded as I took a step back.
“Dolin’s. What?” she asked, brows knitting.
“You work for that fucking sleazeball?” I asked.
“You know Tommy?” she asked.
“I’ve had the misfortune, yeah,” I said, lips twitching as a strange, choked laugh bubbled up and burst out of her.
“Well, luckily, I don’t have to work with him too much. It’s usually just me, the cooks, and the busboy at night.”
“Guess I will have to develop an appetite for some greasy hash browns and burnt eggs,” I said as I made my way to the door.
The most fucked up part, though, was I was actually looking forward to it.
Not the food.
I mean, I could get better food at the tables belonging to literally any woman in the family. Save for maybe Mira, one of Emilio’s sisters. I never had a need to go to some crummy diner for food.
But I found myself counting down the days until I got to go.
Not for the food.
Or to drop off the money.
