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“Oh. Well, I’m not on it.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I know. I looked.”
“Right.” I shrug. “I don’t really see the point of it. I keep in touch with the people I want to keep in touch with. I don’t need to see ten different photos of avocado toast first thing in the morning.”
“Avocado toast?”
“Yeah. Avocados on toast. It’s a common breakfast food, sometimes lunch.”
“If you say so,” he replies. “Well, good for you.”
“For…”
“For not being on it.”
“I’m sure the insecurity and lack of self-worth will sneak up on me some other way.”
He laughs. “Social media marketing might be your calling.”
Following his lead when it comes to honesty, I ask, “Why did you look me up?”
“I was curious.”
“About…”
“You. Since we’re friends, I figured I should know if you post pictures of avocado toast.”
“Well, I wouldn’t.”
“Okay.” He grins, then turns to the cashier. I was so distracted I’m just realizing we’ve reached the front of the line. The guy behind the register knows Elliot by the sound of their conversation. I’m beginning to get the sense there isn’t anyone in this town whodoesn’tknow Elliot, actually.
I read the menu for real, trying to decide what to order. I’m having trouble focusing on the offerings, though.
We’re friends.That’s what Elliot just said. That should have made me happy, not sad. Out of everyone I’ve encountered in Canmore, there’s no one else I’d rather spend time with. I like him, probably more than I should. More than I’ve ever liked anyone within twenty-four hours of meeting them for the first time. We live thousands of miles apart. He doesn’t want a girlfriend, much less me.
Friendships have a far higher success rate than romantic relationships. I need to rid my mind of the possibility that anything more might happen between us, yank it up like a weed before its roots sink any deeper. After I leave in nine days, there’s an excellent chance I’ll never see Elliot Reid again. I’m probably just looking for a distraction. A hot guy who’s being nice to me is much more enjoyable to focus on than what’s waiting for me when I return home.
“Auden?”
“Yeah?” I jerk my head to the right, looking at Elliot. Based on his amused expression, this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention.
He nods to the guy behind the register. “You ready to order?”
“Oh. Yeah. Breakfast sandwich and an iced coffee, please.”
“You got it,” the cashier replies.
I pull out my card and hand it to him to pay.
Elliot starts to protest. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
He studies my face for a moment and then relents—temporarily. As soon as we move to the side to wait for our breakfast, he asks, “So how rich are you?”
I snort; I can’t help it. “Who asks that?”
“You’re a sixteen-year-old writing with a Montclair. What do those pens cost? Three, four hundred?”
