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Stepping inside, I let out a sigh as I lean against the door. I could easily become addicted to this feeling.
And X.
SIXTEEN
MAKAYLA
“So,” Heather prompts, “how was last night?”
I hold back a smile as we cross the road, then look down at my smart watch. “Five minutes. I’m impressed,” I tease.
She showed up at my door bright and early this morning dressed in workout clothes, her hair twisted into a messy bun. I laughed at her tank top with the phrase “People… not a fan” printed on the front before she told me to get dressed. Then she suggested we walk the couple blocks to The Village and grab a coffee.
“Hey, I’m not asking for details. If you don’t want to talk about it—”
“No, I do. I just don’t even know where to start.”
“Start at the beginning.”
So I do. I tell her everything from the interesting pearl top the guide had been wearing up to when Desiree escorted me to the room. “That was awkward.”
Heather waves me off. “She probably just wanted to make you comfortable for your first time.”
“Yeah.” I sigh.
I can’t help but wonder if Victor is or was ever a member. Who knows? Maybe Veil is too tame for what heneeds. I shudder at the thought.
Up ahead, a woman pushing a jogging stroller is coming toward us.
“What are you thinking?” she asks.
“Do you think Victor has ever been there?”
Heather makes a humming sound as if she wouldn’t be surprised if he was.
“Oh my God.” I look over at her with wide eyes. “What if he’s a member?” I snort, stepping to the side to allow the woman to pass. She lifts her hand, giving a quick wave, and I return the gesture with a smile. “What if I run into him?”
She looks over at me with a look that saysduh.“You pretend he doesn’t exist.”
I lift a shoulder as we approach the coffee shop. “As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t.”
* * *
“Makayla,”the barista calls as she sets my order on the counter.
“Thank you.”
“Makayla?” a male voice says behind me.
I jerk my gaze over my shoulder to find Spencer, the guy I dated last year, standing in line.
Grabbing the two lattes, I turn away from the counter and face him. “Spencer,” I greet, trying my best to keep the bitterness out of my voice. “You’re alive,” I add with a hint of sarcasm.
I don’t have any lingering feelings for him. In fact, when he stopped calling, I was worried more than I was hurt.
He gives me a tight smile, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Sorry I never called.”
I just stare at him, waiting for an excuse to follow, but I don’t get one.
