Page 7 of Sunflower Persona (Classic City Romance #2)

Kori

W ith every day that passes, the sterile walls of my room inch closer, closing in around me on all sides. Why did they have to be white? It makes the space feel more like a prison than a home. Or an asylum. Maybe that was intentional, because I’m going crazy locked in here.

Outside of meals and classes, I haven’t ventured outside again.

Not since I fled from Cutter’s like a princess fleeing the ball.

The difference is I didn’t have a magical night with a prince first or a fairy godmother waiting in the wings to make everything better.

All I got was an awkward conversation and ridicule from the man I was—am—crushing on and his friends.

I seriously doubt he’s going to come chasing after me with a glass slipper to declare his feelings.

This isn’t a fairy tale, and even if it was, I’m not exactly the princess type.

He isn’t single, anyway. There was way too much familiarity between him and the goth woman for her to be anything but his girlfriend.

They fit together well—their scaries match.

Given the choice between me and her, I would have chosen her too.

She’s everything I’m not: small, edgy, and confident.

With her in the picture, why would Gage ever take a second glance at me?

That’s right, he didn’t.

It was a stark reminder of why I don’t go out of my comfort zone—and why I don’t have friends. Loneliness sucks, but it’s never humiliated me.

When I can’t stall any longer, I grab my bag and head for the bus stop.

Fuzzy dark fabric clings to my arms within minutes of stepping into the blistering heat.

It’s the wrong season to wear a hoodie—I know that—but knots tangled in my gut with every other outfit I tried on this morning. They left too much exposed.

No one spares me a second glance as I squeeze onto the bus like a sardine in a can, or as I make the brisk walk down the street to the right building. A blast of freezing air crashes into me as I step through the door, coating my damp skin with a layer of goose bumps.

Where is everybody?

The rattle of the AC mixes with the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, filling the almost empty hallway with an ominous hum.

The only other person is a man sprawled out in an alcove desk with his attention locked on his laptop.

Each hesitant footstep on the linoleum tile echoes behind me as I approach the classroom.

My heart flutters like a hummingbird, beating its wings against the curve of my neck.

It’s like the opening scene of a slasher flick.

This is the moment the creepy monster or masked slasher jumps out and kills an unsuspecting girl, setting the stage for the ordeal the final girl survives.

Despite every instinct telling me not to, I reach for the door. The handle turns a fraction before the lock prevents it from going any farther.

What the fuck?

I try it again, but the result isn’t any different.

It’s not a surprise, but it also doesn’t ease any of my confusion.

Each door I check to the lecture hall is the same.

Did I miss a memo or something? I pull out my phone to check, and sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

An email with the subject line “CLASS CANCELED” sits unopened at the top of my inbox.

Oh.

An airy chuckle slips past my lips at my stupidity.

That leaves the question of what I’m supposed to do now.

There are hours before I need to be back for my next class, and as much as I would like to, going back to my room seems like the wrong way to spend that time.

Maybe that cute vintage store has new products.

The girl who worked there did say they put new stuff out every week.

Hell, I can even grab breakfast while I’m out.

It might be fun. What are the odds I run into Gage again?

As it turns out, quite high.

After a significantly less compacted bus ride, I step out into the floral-scented air and stroll along the sleepy city streets.

The Bean Bar is the one spot brimming with activity as people queue to get their morning dose of caffeine, and behind the counter is the man I can’t seem to escape.

Once again, the fates have tangled our threads.

Okay, so I might have helped him get this job, so him being here shouldn’t be a shock, but still, out of all the shifts, he has to be working this one.

The dark-blue apron and matching baseball hat do nothing to lessen the intensity of the scowl on his face as he messes with the large espresso machine.

A cloud of steam erupts in front of him, and he jerks away.

As it clears, he looks up, and his gaze meets mine through the large pane of glass.

Lightning crashes through me—there is no other way to describe the sensation—paralyzing me where I stand.

His face softens as he cocks his head to the side, the drink in front of him completely forgotten.

Someone knocks into my shoulder as they pass, severing that electric connection with a hastily mumbled “sorry.” What am I doing?

My face grows impossibly hot, sucking all the heat from my gut and leaving an aching ball of ice in its place.

He must think I’m a stalker. Who else stands outside someone’s place and stares at them like a complete weirdo?

Not normal, sane girls. Whipping around, I flee. Again.

“Yellow, wait.” The rich timbre of his voice wraps around me like a lasso, pulling taut and locking me in place.

Something stirs in my stomach. Not butterflies—these beating wings are far too big. Seagulls, maybe. The fluttering is violent enough to come from one of those abrasive creatures.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” I muster all the bravado I can while still refusing to face him, but the slight quaver to my words shows my hand.

“I’m on break.”

My spine stiffens as his voice comes even closer than before.

“Mid-rush?”

“Yup. Told them it was important.”

Yeah, right. That’s the last thing I am to this man. With a scowl of my own, I whirl around to give him a piece of my mind.

“That’s rich. How am I important? You don’t even remember my name.” A bitter bite of laughter bubbles past my lips.

His face twists into a grimace, and he runs a hand over his face. Good. He should be a little ashamed of himself.

“You’re right, I don’t. I’d like to, though.”

Oh, he’s on a roll. The only response I give is another scoff as I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“I deserved that,” he mumbles. “Look, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for how my friends acted the other night.

It wasn’t cool. And I’m sorry for acting like an ass the other day.

It’s not an excuse, but I’ve got a lot of shit going on right now, and you caught me at a bad time.

I was frustrated at the situation and lashed out at you. ”

“Okay. Thanks, I guess.”

My fingers dance in my palms while I wait for him to make his next move. I have no idea what comes next here. The apology was already out of left field, so I’m flying through this encounter blind.

Those pesky seagulls riot as he sighs and takes another step forward, encroaching on the edges of my personal space.

The smell of roasted coffee clings to his uniform, but I don’t actually hate it when it’s coming from him.

Dark bags that definitely weren’t there the last time we spoke hang beneath his bloodshot eyes.

That’s also new—and troubling. If I were a betting gal, I’d say he hasn’t slept in days.

“Are you okay?” Without thinking, I reach both hands up and grab his face to get a better look.

Shit .

I jerk them away and take a giant step back before he can snap at me about boundaries. It’s not like I haven’t heard that one before. Everyone from my parents to my therapists have tried to instill that in me, but every so often, I slip up. Like now, for instance.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, moving even farther away.

Warmth spreads along my arm when he reaches out and curls his fingers around my wrist. The barest hint of a smile plays at the edge of his lips, dulling some of his sharper edges.

“It’s fine. Really. I’m pretty used to having hands all over me.”

The seagulls dive into the sea of dread in my gut, raising the tide of the toxic liquid and letting it course through me.

It’s no surprise that he’s used to having hands on him.

I’m sure he has endless opportunities to hook up with women looking for a little danger.

Not like I care. It’s not my business, anyway.

Pinpricks of heat radiate from where his hand is still flush against my skin. Holy shit , his hands are big. His palm nearly encircles my wrist on its own. If it wasn’t for that grip, I would take off like a bat out of hell. My face tightens as I glare at the shackle—like that will do any good.

“Not like that.” That ghost of a smile vanishes as his face twists into a grimace, but he doesn’t release me.

“Goddamnit. My brain isn’t working right today.

I coach at an MMA gym down the street. Jiu-jitsu destroyed my personal bubble years ago, especially once I took over the kids’ program.

Those little hellions love to climb all over me.

Who needs a jungle gym when you have Coach Gage, right? I…I’m going to stop talking now.”

Pleasant pressure builds in my chest as he rambles. It’s adorable, and my teeth bite into my bottom lip to keep the dopey smile off my face.

“Good to know. My bubble is pretty big, but I’m bad about remembering other people’s exist.”

“Shit, sorry,” he hisses and drops his hold on me.

The loss of contact sends a visceral wave of bitter-cold disappointment through me. I didn’t mean that he was in my space.

“It’s fine.” My cheeks heat as I wave off his concern.

There I go, making things awkward again. That’s the Kori special. What would a normal person do in this situation? Small talk, probably, but I’ve never been able to figure that one out. I think we are past the point of talking about the weather.

“So, kids?” I ask. “That doesn’t exactly mesh with the whole ‘big scary man’ vibes you’ve got going.”

He huffs, which I think was supposed to be laughter, and shrugs.

“It’s something that was thrust upon me back when the gym opened, and as the years went by, I never stopped.”

“So you enjoy it, then?”

“Honestly, yeah. More than I ever thought I would.”

I start to ask him more, but he lets out a large yawn, reminding me of the question he conveniently never answered before.

“Seriously, are you okay? You look like shit.”

Weariness overtakes his features, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a deep sigh. It only lasts for a moment before his face returns to its neutral mask, but in that split second, he lets me see more than words could ever express. He’s not okay.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

If tired means bone-deep exhaustion, then sure, I guess he’s just tired.

“Gage—”

“I have to get back inside,” he interrupts. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

He doesn’t wait for my reply before turning and jogging back toward the shop. As his hand finds the door handle, he pauses.

“What’s your name, Yellow?” he calls out over his shoulder.

“Kori.”

“Kori.” For the first time, his lips curl into a genuine grin. “I’ll see you around.”

Alone again, I’m finally able to breathe—and think—but none of what just happened makes any sort of sense. That might have been my princess moment. Is there a fairy godmother hanging around somewhere too?

I think he wants to see me again. He wouldn’t have said what he did otherwise. With our threads tangled, I don’t think we have much of a choice either way. That doesn’t mean I have to sit around and wait for a higher power to intervene. I’m taking my fate into my own hands.

The tab with his gym, Double Teep, is still open in my phone’s browser. I pull it up, click the button to request more information, and fill out the contact form. Now all that’s left to do is wait.