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"Wait!" The word leaps out. "Have breakfast with me?"
She pauses, her back half-turned, indecision flickering in her stance.
My name echoes through the café, jarring. "Order for Victor!"
"One moment," I tell her, shooting a glance at thebarista who's holding out my fancy concoction. "Don't go anywhere."
But, of course, she doesn't honor my request. By the time I've grabbed my cup, she's already out the door.
"Damn it," I mutter, abandoning my order on the nearest table to chase after her.
The door swings shut behind me, and I step into the bite of October's breath, scanning the street. There—Chestnut's retreating figure a few yards ahead.
"Chestnut!" It's out before I can reel it back.
She spins, brown curls snapping, fire in those eyes. "What did you call me?"
"Shit." My hand combs through my hair, a nervous tick betraying my usual cool. She's marching back now, and there's nowhere to hide on this sidewalk.
"What did you just say?" Her words are nearly lost in the city's morning hum, but the demand is clear, pressing.
"I..." How to explain without digging this hole deeper? I clench and unclench my fists, weighing my next words carefully. "It was just a nickname, in my head. I didn't mean?—"
"Nickname?" The space between us is charged, her gaze demanding answers I'm not sure I have.
"Look, we seem to keep bumping into each other," I say, my breath forming clouds in the crisp air. "And since I never got your name, 'Chestnut' just stuck."
"Stop that," she snaps, her brows knitting together in a frown. "Just stop."
"Okay, okay," I concede, raising my hands in surrender. "Then what is your name?"
"Go ask your PR team," she retorts with a scoff, her voice laced with sarcasm. "They're probably good at that sort of thing with the money you throw at them."
She turns to leave, but I can't let her slip away again—not without something real. I reach out quickly, fingers brushing her sleeve, and she halts, shooting me a glare that could shatter glass.
"Please," I start, softer this time. "Your name?"
For a second, something flickers across her face—surprise? Annoyance? She huffs, "Avery." It's almost reluctant, but it's out there now, hanging between us like a fragile truce.
"Avery," I repeat, letting it roll off my tongue, a smile tugging at my lips despite myself. "Would you join me for breakfast? I'm not trying to buy you off—I just want to talk."
"No." Her arms cross over her chest as if shielding herself from the idea itself. "You think a meal will change what you're doing to this town? To me?"
"Maybe we can find a way to make this work for everyone," I suggest, hoping sincerity bleeds through my words.
"Leave. Take your money and just go. Buildsomewhere else. That's how this works for everyone." Her eyes are fierce, challenging, as if daring me to argue.
I watch her turn on her heel, her figure receding into the hustle of Main Street. My hands clench at my sides, but I let her walk away. "Avery," I mouth silently, committing it to memory, a promise of sorts that this isn't over.
Chapter Eleven
Avery
I march down the street,my heart pounding like it's trying to break free. Victor Stone, with his predictable habits and that infuriatingly calm demeanor, goes to The Java Hut every morning at 8:15 am sharp. I know it. The whole town knows it. And the plan was for me to run into him. So why do I feel so off-balance after talking to him?
"Get a grip," I mutter to myself. My hands are clammy, but not from the chill in the air. It's anger, right? It has to be.
When he asked me my name a second time, he looked at me with those piercing blue eyes of his. Those eyes that never seem to miss a thing. And for a moment—a stupid, fleeting moment—I thought I saw something else. A flicker of... what, vulnerability?