Page 19 of The Finish Line

“No. Dominic’s sick.”

“He doesn’t look sick.” Sean stares at us both, running his nails down his arms, and that’s when I spot the blistering dots on his arms, face, and neck. I open my mouth to speak when Dom shoots up from his bed and points at him.

“Sean! You’re the culprit!”

*

“Sir?” The unfamiliar voice pulls me back to where I stand. “You have seven bags.” The sound of ringing merchandise eases me slowly back into the present as I take my change and receipt from the woman’s extended hand. Chest aching from the memory, I gather the bags by the handle and make my way out of the store and toward Dom’s Camaro. “We both know I wasn’t going to make it to thirty, brother. Take care of her.”

Chapter Four

Cecelia

Staring blankly out of one of the large windows into the parking lot, I refute the idea that I’m searching for any sign of the Camaro—for him. Yet another glance at the clock has me aggravated with the lies I’m telling myself. He dropped me off three hours ago. I know he hasn’t changed his mind. I know he’s coming back.

He came back, for me.

He left his life, for me.

He killed, again, for me.

“Where is your head today, woman?” Marissa asks, sidling up next to me at the counter.

“Just... distracted.” I know I should probably give her a heads-up on what, or rather, who’s coming, but I have no idea if he has any plans of invading my workspace as he has my home and my new life. I have no idea if he intends to remain incognito here as he has in the past. It’s anyone’s guess for now, especially mine.

Marissa is the closest thing I have to a girlfriend here, and I’ve told her enough about Tobias for her to know why I’m not entertaining men for the time being. I hold back in revealing any more for the moment because believing anything at this point is far too premature. He could very well disappear as quickly as he came.

But I don’t believe that, despite my need to hold on to my skepticism.

I hate that I mostly believe him and the sincerity he’s shown thus far with his words and actions.

But if I do believe him, take his words to heart, will I be forever a fool?

For now, I could be. I can’t let him do it. He has to earn my trust again, no matter his place in my heart.

“Distracted? I’ll say, you’ve been shining that napkin dispenser for ten minutes.”

“What? Oh.” I glance around the café, which is dead after the last of the morning rush. “Did you need me for something?”

“No, just worried. You’ve been acting out of sorts since the Presidential Address yesterday. Want to talk about it?”

“No, I’m fine, swear.” I turn to her and force a smile, and she raises a brow.

“We’ve been joined at the hip since you hired me. You think I can’t tell when you’re faking it?”

“Sorry, you’re right. Something is going on, and to be honest, I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. I’ll explain later.”

“Yes, you will, and it’ll have to wait because he’s back.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink.

“What?” Paling, I glance behind me, following her gaze to see Mr. Handsome stroll in. Within the second of seeing he’s the man she was referring to, I’m gifted with a little relief, quickly replaced by a spike of anxiety.

“All yours, girl. And in case you’re wondering, our omelets aren’t that great.”

He takes a stool, dressed to impress, his eyes focused on me as I grab the coffee pot, snatch a ready mug beneath the counter, flip it and pour, refusing to meet his inquisitive gaze. “Morning. Western Omelet, no peppers or cheese, right?”

“Most people call me Greg,” he quips, “but yes, please.”

I give him an answering smile while I write out his ticket and haul ass back toward the kitchen, cutting off any chance to draw out conversation. So far today, I’ve filled a few salt shakers with sugar, dropped three plates, and in my haste, ran smack into my office door.

---