Page 31 of Crazy In Love (Love & War #2)

“Seven days a week. I have class earlier on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but every other day, I stick around till about nine-thirty.”

“So maybe I’ll see you every other day.” I dig a hand into my purse and search for some cash, and when I find it, I slide a ten-dollar bill across the counter. “For such good customer service, and hopefully the start of a Raya-goes-to-New-York fund.”

“Thanks.” She slips her bounty into the pocket of her apron and blushes. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Don’t forget the cake situation. I’m begging you.”

She giggles. “I won’t.”

I take my things and meander toward the door, passing curious stares and beady-eyed scrutiny. Some of the dozen in line watch me with obvious distrust. Others look down their noses despite the fact I’m physically taller than them. One even drops his chin and avoids meeting my eyes.

And none show any concern when I slam my toe on that fucking step, as the pain steals my breath and draws me short.

“Shit!” I skip through the doorway, spilling my coffee and burning my hand.

“Dammit!” Limping onto the sidewalk and wiping the spilled coffee onto my pants, I turn right and trudge my way toward the bookstore.

I could grumble under my breath, growling about this shitty town. I could mass-text my friends and tell them this place sucks. Hell, I could scream in the middle of the street, confident I wouldn’t even get hit by a car, since traffic here is less common than a horse-drawn cart.

But then again, Plainview seems to be on a mission to break me, and knowing my luck, the moment my feet touch the tar, a fleet of carts is apt to run me down.

Instead, I eat my pastry and continue toward the bookstore, and when I remember I didn’t spill all of my coffee, I sip the deliciously rich beverage and arrive at Happily Ever After in a fractionally better mood.

Chief Happiness Officer, indeed.

Juggling my breakfast and slipping a key into the lock, I push the door open and step inside, a broad smile stretching across my face, my mood soaring and my stomach tumbling, all because I cross the threshold and smell… us.

Me and Chris.

Not an overwhelming, nasty sex smell. But a sweet tang of body soap and excellent linen. It’s salad dressing and long, drawn-out pleasure.

Jesus, it’s nice. And if I’m not careful, that niceness will kick my ass and send my heart pitter-pattering all the way to the edge of a cliff just as soon as I’m back in New York, out of reach for the man whose hands worship. Whose eyes consume. Whose voice commands.

Shaking my head, I shut the door and leave the closed sign turned toward the street, then placing my coffee and half-eaten pastry on the counter, I cross the store and continue up the stairs and into my apartment, where the smell of us is richer. More concentrated.

I’m certain we left my bed unmade when we left yesterday, and I know I left my salad uneaten, with a fork still in it, sitting on the floor. But as I cross the threshold and wander through my kitchen, I come to realize Chris’ early departure this morning might’ve led him here.

Curious, I set my bag on the counter by the sink and quickly grab the things I need for today—my phone and keys, plus my little notebook and Chris’ pen—and digging them into my pockets, I stroll toward the bathroom with the memories of shattered glass playing through my mind.

But reality leaves me with something far less hectic.

The shower door is missing, of course, and the handrail sits on the floor.

But the glass is gone. The shattered remains, swept up, so the danger is gone, and my ability to pee in my own bathroom, restored.

Did he come by because he’s a clean freak? Or because he wanted to do something nice for me?

The former, probably. But the fact he could walk away from it all yesterday was, in itself, a surprise I didn’t dare vocalize for fear of ruining an amazing afternoon.

Christian Watkins is the perfect lover. Determined to please and demanding in all the best ways.

When his dick is hard, and his hands are grabbing, he’s the kind of man I could get used to spending my time with.

But when the sun is out, and the real world encroaches, he’s a different person entirely.

Nitpicky, cranky, unbending, and not really all that nice.

All because of parents who hurt their sons and a life that chose to be cruel, when those boys deserved so much better.

“Ah, well.” Exhaling, I turn on my heels and make my way back through my apartment, through the door and pulling it shut when I’m on the other side, then down the stairs so I can honor Alana’s need for her store to remain functional while she’s out of action.

I open a few windows and turn the closed sign around. I power up the computer and switch on the coffee machine, and passing by the stereo, I flick it on, too, so music plays through the speakers perched in every corner of the store.

Not loud.

Merely present.

By nine-fifteen, the pastries arrive from the bakery, and by nine-thirty, I have the fridge stocked and customers perusing the shelves.

I’ve got this business on lock.

I spend a few hours serving and dropping cash into the register, but it takes just half a day to realize they come for a social life and not for the literature.

Little old ladies create a book club, each of them balancing a tattered novel on their knees and a cup of coffee in their hands, and yet, the conversation is one percent about whatever Tolstoy wrote about and ninety-nine-point-nine percent whatever everyone else is doing around town.

I hear snippets about a doctor who lives in the city , who, according to Barbara, isn’t really a doctor at all, but we don’t say so in front of her father , because that creates rifts amongst the social circles.

And I catch whispers about Alana and Tommy and how they really should be married before making babies , though the old bitches shut their traps when I accidentally slam their ankles with the vacuum cleaner.

Which makes me the clumsy Yankee bitch.

Proudly.

Eliza Darling is apparently dating someone named Roger—according to Betty. Ollie Darling is helplessly single—according to Gloria. And Christian Watkins is probably still a virgin—according to Henrietta.

Jesus Christ take the wheel. If their information on Chris is anything to go by, then Eliza is probably dating someone named Greg, and Ollie is probably set to marry a hooker.

My phone trills around two o’clock with a New York area code and a picture that leaves my cheeks aching, so I answer on the fly and keep my voice low enough that the book club from hell can’t listen in. “Booker?”

He breathes out a satisfied, smiling exhale. “There she is. Tell me, Fox. How can it only be Monday, and you left on Friday, yet it feels like I haven’t seen you in weeks?”

“It’s only been two days?” I stop between two bookshelves and stare up at the ceiling in wonder. And confusion. “Really? ”

“That’s what I’m saying! Time has slowed down, and morale is plummeting. Even the stock market is crashing. We need you back.”

“Oh, please.” I lower my gaze and wander toward the back of the store. “You’re being a little OTT. How are things over there in the land of the sane?”

“I’d much rather hear about you,” he counters, laughing. “How’s life in the middle of nowhere? What do you even do with your time? That’s why it feels like forever, by the way. You have nothing to do and twenty-four long hours a day to do it in.”

“My days are going fast and slow at the same time.” I put the vacuum back on the charger and lean against the wall, taking a moment of privacy back here by the World History textbooks. No one cares to read those . “The baby arrived.”

“Already? Alana’s okay? And the baby?”

“Everyone is good. Alana was already having contractions by Saturday morning, was in labor all day, and then spat that baby out by three o’clock Sunday morning.”

“Girl or boy?”

“Girl,” I happily sigh. “And get this! Her name is Hazel Fox.”

“No shit,” he exclaims. “Awesome name to honor an awesome woman. Bet you cried, huh?”

“No. Misty eyed,” I clarify. “I was surprised and got in my feels a little bit, but I didn’t sob or anything weird like that.”

He chuckles. “Strong name from a strong woman. Mom and baby are healthy?”

“Uh-huh. I spoke to Alana this morning before dropping Franky at school, and I’ll take him over to the hospital this afternoon once I close the shop.

She said Hazel’s starting to wake a little bit more, and breastfeeding is going well.

They expect to be able to come home either tomorrow or Wednesday at the latest.”

“Why Wednesday if they’re healthy?”

“Hazel’s a little yellow,” I shrug. “Doctor said it’s normal and expected. And Franky was the same, so they’re just keeping an eye on it. Otherwise, everyone is passing their tests and doing amazing.”

“Send me an address.” I don’t have to be in his office to know he sits in his chair and grabs a pen. “I wanna send a gift.”

“Or…” I tease. “You could hop a flight and visit. I’m throwing a little party for Alana and Hazel in a few weeks, and seeing as how I have no friends and could do with fattening the guest list a little…”

“What date? ”

“Uh…” I pull the phone from my ear and quickly flick to my calendar app. “June seventh. I’ll send you a formal invitation once I’ve designed them.”

“Don’t bother.” His voice turns sad in an instant. He clicks his computer mouse, checking his schedule. “I have Rome on my calendar for the week leading into the seventh, then London right after for the Maher Conference. I have no room to sneak over to Bumfuck Idaho, not even for a day.”

Disappointed, I flatten my back against the wall and exhale. “That’s shitty. How dare they plan an annual event that clashes with my hastily put-together baby shower for a baby who has already arrived?”

He snickers. “Those inconsiderate bastards. Send me her address so I can have something delivered. Let me buy her forgiveness.”