Page 20 of His To Erase

“You’re the worst,” I tell her, biting back a grin that she absolutely doesn’t deserve.

She winks. “And yet, here I am. Saint fucking Sloane.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Have I ever told you you’ve got a real gift for compliments?”

She leans on the edge of the cart, grinning. “One time in high school, I told a guy he had serial killer eyes. You’d think that’d be a dealbreaker, right? He asked me out the next day.”

I blink. “Did you go?”

“Obviously,” she deadpans. “I wasn’t gonna let all that opportunity go to waste. I made him take me to Olive Garden. Unlimited breadsticks or bust.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels... good. I almost forgot how easy it was to just be.

She nudges me with her elbow. “See? I’m good for something.”

I open my mouth to agree—but something about the way she says it flicks a switch in my brain.

I’m good for something.

My smile falters. Just long enough that I have to look away, forcing a soft chuckle so she doesn’t see.

“You, my friend, are deeply unwell,” I say instead, going back to our usual playful as I shove the cart forward.

“All the time.” She tosses her ponytail like it’s a badge of honor. “But at least I’m consistent.”

The rest of the shift drags. There’s a lull around lunch that leaves too much time to think, and not enough distraction to keep my brain from spiraling.

I glance at the door every time the bell chimes telling myself I’m just hoping for something interesting. That I’m bored, and it’s not him I’m waiting for.

God, I’m a mess.

By the time I clock out, I’m ready to call it a day and finally do what I actually wanted—go stare at buildings like I originally planned with Sarah. She was going to help me scope out a few spaces, something small with potential. Something that could actually be mine.

Some of that excitement starts to creep back in, bubbling just enough to remind me what hope feels like.

But fate, apparently, has other ideas. Because the second I step out from the break room, Frank’s standing there. He’s leaning near the front desk, hands in his pockets, black button-down rolled at the sleeves, and dark slacks hugging his frame.

His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to flash the edge of ink across his collarbone. The dark leather watch strapped to his wrist probably costs more than my rent, and the stubble lining his jaw is trimmed with obsessive precision.

He looks like a GQ cover boy with a secret body count and zero remorse. I don’t hate it, but he’s also not Tattoo man. Where did that come from?

He pushes off the counter with that lazy, crooked smile sliding into place like muscle memory.

“Hey,” he says, casually, like we do this all the time. Like it’s normal for him to pop up at my job looking like the human embodiment of a red flag with a Rolex.

I blink. “What… are you doing here?”

His grin deepens. “Picking you up for our date. I told you we were going.”

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

Brain fog’s a bitch, but I know I didn’t agree to that. I would’ve remembered agreeing to a date with the man who gives charming narcissism its own zip code.

“I—when did I agree to that?”

He shrugs. “You said you were off today. I figured I’d take you somewhere nice. You’ve been working too hard.”

My mouth is halfway to saying no when I feel Sloane step up behind me, close enough that I feel her smile through the back of my skull.

“If you don’t want him, I will,” she whispers, giddy and completely useless.

I elbow her without looking. “You’re not helping.”

She backs off, humming something filthy under her breath. I make a mental note to bring that up later.

My eyes cut back to Frank—who’s still watching us with that smug, unbothered expression of his.

“I didn’t tell you I work here,” I say, crossing my arms before I can stop them. The words come out sharper than I meant—but not sharp enough to regret. Not that I owe him anything.

The bar was one thing. But the library? This is mine. He doesn’t know where I live either—and that’s not an accident. Our entire relationship so far has been bar flirting, dinner, occasional texting, and him showing up with smug persistence like a handsome virus I haven’t shaken yet.

Until recently, “date” wasn’t even on the list. And now… here he is. Inside my library.

“You mentioned it.” His tone’s too light to be innocent.

I hadn’t planned on seeing him today. I had plans—real ones with Sarah that were long overdue.

“Did I?” I ask, voice dry.

He shrugs, all charm. “You probably don’t remember. We’ve talked about a lot.”

And just like that, I feel like the asshole, because we have talked. There was that one night he sent me a meme at two a.m. about red flags and said it reminded him of me.

I told him to go fuck himself. But I laughed. Maybe I’ve been leading him on or maybe I just liked the attention, or the consistency. The idea of someone choosing me over and over—even if it’s for the wrong reasons, makes me feel wanted on some fucked up level.

I glance at my phone. The map is still open with all the listings I planned to check out today. I was supposed to spend it chasing something that felt like mine. Not detouring into whatever the hell this is.

A small pang of guilt tugs in my chest. Sarah’s going to be so pissed. She was going to be my designated hype girl, dressed in black with iced coffee and way too many unsolicited opinions about which places “gave off emotionally stable vibes.”

I shoot her a text.

Me: Change of plans. Raincheck on building-stalking. Blame GQ Barbie. Also… if I go missing, check his trunk first.

A beat later, the bubbles appear.

Sarah: Excuse me?? YOU’RE ON A DATE?? With the man who looks like he bench presses trust issues?? I hate you. Go. Have. Fun. But text me the second he starts talking in riddles or offers you a diamond collar.

I snort under my breath and lock the screen. So much for not getting guilt-tripped into a date I never agreed to.

But he’s here and he’s… trying right? Sort of. This is the kind of attention most girls would kill for, so why do I feel so bothered by it?

Maybe this is what taking it slow looks like. What it’s supposed to feel like.

The bracelet from last night is still sitting on my kitchen counter—unopened, and untouched, and suddenly I feel like a dick.

I sigh. “Fine. But I’m picking the music.”

His smile is slow and infuriating. That self-satisfied kind of smug that says I never actually had a choice.

The doors slide open, releasing us into the thick, early-summer air. It clings to my skin like a warning, but I follow him to the curb anyway.