Page 8 of Bidding War

It’s not a fair fight. Not even close. I need an upper hand in this and?—

My phone goes off. Another text from Anderson. I don’t know what to do. Read it, and let him know I’m alive? Or ignore it and plod on? I could give in to feeling sorry for myself. It’s hard not to. But self-pity won’t get me anywhere good, and I need to do something. I have to fix a part of my life, or today goes down as an abject failure of a day.

Maybe Anderson will have some idea about what to do when it comes to his father.

I sigh deeply and flick the message open. There’s a string of them, but they all say basically the same thing. “I’m sorry,” or “This is all my fault,” or “Can we talk?” I don’t want to talk about us. Things are too complicated between us. I want to talk about his dad, and doing that via text seems like a bad idea. If we meet up, I can steer the conversation to Elliot.

So, I send, “Meet me at Guerrero’s Coffee at four.”

“I’ll be there.”

That gives me just enough time to get home, shower, debate for an hour whether this is a smart move, and get prettied up. Before I can tuck my phone away, a raindrop splats on the screen. A freezing downpour begins.

Super.

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5

JUNE

Guerrero’s Coffee is a quaint little out-of-the-way shop. Being off the main drag, most people walk right past without noticing it. But the charming painted white brick interior and wooden accents make the place homey, and the unobservant are missing out on a real gem of Boston.

I almost feel bad bringing Anderson here. It’s like sharing a secret I’m not ready to share with him yet.

That twinge makes me wonder. Not long ago, I’d thought we had something incredible. Something poets write about. But after everything I have been put through because of his father, I don’t know.

When I see him, though, he still takes my breath away.

Anderson West is tall and dreamy with muscles. His blue eyes peer deep, and his smile is devilish in just the right ways. When he sees me, he rakes his fingers through his black hair. It’s styled casually, but sometimes he smooths it back. I like it both ways. In fact, I like everything about him, which is what makes this so confusing. He wears a fitted black cashmere sweater that looks soft enough to bury my face in and dark blue jeans with black boots. When he stands to greet me, my heart catches in my throat.

I care far more about Anderson than I should. It might be the L-word, but I can’t let myself think about that. I have to be in more control than that. After losing control when I was kidnapped, I crave control more than I can put into words.

We have a short, stiff hug before I sit to join him at the small two-top. There are two ceramic mugs on the table, and one sits atop a warmer. I smile at the mug, a question in my eyes.

“I remembered what you ordered from the delivery place the other day and took a swing. Hazelnut latte, right?”

Crap. That’s so sweet of him. “Yeah. Thanks.” When I sip it, it’s perfect. Damn him for making it so hard to stay angry.

“So, why did you finally respond to my texts?”

“Because we need to talk,” I say too sharply. Can’t help it.

“What’s wrong, June? Whatever it is, we can fix it.”

“You have ruined my life. Not sure how we fix that.”

He pauses, which is satisfying. I’m not used to seeing Anderson caught off guard. His voice lowers as he asks, “And how did I manage that exactly?”

“Well, the first time was when we were kids?—"

“And you know how sorry I am for what I did back then.”

“And the second time, as adults.”

He thinks for a minute. “I will do everything in my power to make up to you what’s happened. The kidnapping, the thing with my dad walking in on us and taking your money, all of it. June, there is nothing I won’t do to repair what’s been done?—"

“Elliot got me fired, Anderson.”

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