Page 22 of Sweet

“Alias?”

“No, Cas is my real name,” I say even quieter. “The one you know is just another name.”

“And what name would that be?” He softly snickers.

“I’m not telling you,” I chuckle with him.

“You can’t blame me for trying.” He sighs. “I swear, if I ever find you out in the wild, I’m going to fuck your beautiful brain out.”

That probably shouldn’t make me smile, but it does. “Goodnight, Will.”

“Night, Cas.”

He hangs up the phone, but I can’t stop staring at the screen. I’m in deep fucking trouble. In so many ways. I shouldn’t have done that. I absolutely shouldn’t have done any of that. And the fact that I did means I can’t do this. I can’t have him and yet I know I have to.

Until now, I’ve held off on doing a deep dive into Will’s background. I don’t need to confirm who he is anymore, and rather than continue to dig, I attempted to cut and run. Even more now than before, I need to know what I’m dealing with and see all the pieces laid out before me. Maybe then I can reconvince myself how stupid this is and my decision will stick this time. Let’s do this.

So, I know his name, obviously. And I know where he works. Not much else. When we first started talking, he struck me as the type who gave too much away unintentionally. I don’t doubt I would’ve learned his identity eventually based on the info he gave me alone versus simply recognizing him. But what do I really know? We talk a lot and yet, I feel as if I don’t know him at all sometimes. What he’s divulged now seems carefully measured, something I would do.

Something I would do.

That makes me pause, if only for a moment. How similar are we, really? No, I’m being paranoid. I dismiss that idea as ridiculous and carry on.

Back to what I know. He works for Moonlit Meadow Farm. He lives very close to work, only a couple of miles away. Not much in the way of houses and rentals in that area. As for life before, that’s harder to find. He doesn’t seem to have any family in this area and he didn’t graduate from the local high school. Hmm.

On to social media next. Lots of pictures and the screen feels more like a one-way mirror where I can study him as much as I want without him ever noticing. Is enjoying being able to stare at him weird? Probably. Don’t care. So lovely to look at.

Buzzed hair, but not too short and still with a conscious sense of style. He has a bit of a beard in some of his other pictures, and he’s one of the lucky few who looks excellent both clean shaven (like he is these days) and not. And such intense, expressive eyes—the kind that burn so fiercely he could singe a hole right through someone.

I end up falling down a rabbit hole of clicking through years and years of photos: selfies and shots with various friends, at work and a few that are likely in his home, and plenty showing off his tattoos. While clicking through those, I can finally see what the text on his collarbone says, opposite the snake tattooed to look as if threading in and out of his body. He’s pulling theneck of his shirt down and to the side to show off fresh ink still pink around the edges. It reads: memento mori.

Remember death. Ironic.

Chapter ten

Will

This is probably one of those socially unacceptable behaviors of mine, but oh well. I struggle enough as is. Can’t be perfect. When I went to help Bailey unload his truck last Sunday, I may have gotten a glimpse of his license plate. That kinda info opens up alotmore doors in terms of how much you can find out about a person.

Bailey doesn’t have his home address listed for his business, but… he does have his work truck registered. Searching the address helps confirm this is not a mailing address but his actual property. And since Bailey doesn’t have a store for me to pop into, I may have gone out of my way to drive by his place while going to and from work all week long. Not as if I intend to break into his house and hide in his closet just—I don’t know. Get a better sense of him from the outside. Maybe even his daily habits. That would be helpful.

Or maybe I should just message him like a normal person. I like to think I did okay when we talked on Sunday. Not too horribly awkward. And I actually got words out. Wholesentences, even. I wonder what he would say if I asked him out? Jess will likely get pissed, but… oh well. After Sunday, I’m no longer content to give up on Bailey. Jess has always been right there in front of me, but unlike how I almost abandoned the Bailey dream for Mantis—er, Cas—I’m not ready to throw in the towel this time. Maybe that says everything I need to know about how I feel for Jess but don’t want to admit to myself yet.

Jess and I usually don’t have to work Saturday nights since we have to be up early Sunday morning, but Jess has a split shift and I’m covering for Lucy. The girl popped out a ten-pound baby yesterday and I’m just glad I wasn’t here when her water broke at work. That being said, I don’t mind working evenings. Less interactive work and more quiet tasks like straightening and rotating stock, only ringing occasionally when someone comes in. And really, this place is small enough that I have a clear view of the register even from the back of the store.

While I keep one eye on the front, Jess fights the price gun because I can never make the damn thing work. I’m only a few feet away, pulling all the overripe produce to either go in our discount bin or compost—depending on how far gone it is.

“Hey, are you coming to my place Sunday after work?”

The store’s currently empty and we’re closing within the hour, so we’re focusing more on our tasks while idly chatting at times. I can hear the uneven click of the gun, but he doesn’t say anything to me.

“Jess?”

“Yeah, I’m thinking,” he mumbles. When I look over, he finally slams a part back into the right place and it’s no longer jammed.

“Are you coming over?” I ask again.

“What am I coming over for, exactly?”

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