Page 46 of Muddy Messy Love

My brows jump. “L…Lunch?”

“Yes. Lunch,” he says, offering me a quick glance as though the notion isn’t out of this fucking world.

I glimpse over my shoulder to see Slade standing with his chest puffed, eyes narrowed, and hands balled into fists. It’s a standoff between strangers for reasons unbeknownst to me, but one I should end all the same.

I grip Cole’s wrist, ignoring the warm tingles it sparks through my hand. “Sure. Let’s go. Lunch soundsgrand.”

As I coax him away from Slade, east down Collins, Cole’s reluctance soon turns to powerful strides, each spanning two of mine. I let my grip fall away, but the intimacy warms my skin, as does the knowledge he didn’t pull away.

“Have a nice life, Aves.” Slade’s words hit the centre of my back like an arrow, and I flinch.

Brakes squeal, and cars honk. Buskers perform hooked up to amplifiers, and people chatter away huddled under awnings. But Cole seems lost in his own silent world, until his throat clears. “Slade Pearson,” he sneers.

My eyes widen, and I look up at him. “How…how do you—”

“Mugshot. Unlike you, he resembles his.”

My cheeks burn at the reminder, and I drop my gaze to the glittering footpath blemished with grease and gum. Cole’s footsteps are solid next to mine, and his black leather shoes shine with polish and scattered raindrops.

“I ended it,” I say. I’m not sure why I tell him. I’m not certain he cares in any way that matters, but the wintry air softens around his silence as we continue walking. If I weren’t so drained, my brain would dissect this interaction like a dead frogin science class, but even mine has its limits—and this, whatever this is, feels easy when not much does.

The Italian café we find is half-empty, yet to be devoured by the lunchtime rush. The scent of tomato and basil soaks the air, wafting past the coffee counter and circling the red-and-white chequered cloths draped over every table.

Cole leads us to a quiet corner, where he slides out my chair and tugs off his jacket to hang over the back of his. Taking a seat, he leans against the wall, then stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. His white shirt glows against his pale-caramel skin, and silver marbles through those forest eyes. They’re luminous mandalas ringed in black, like full moons circled by night. They’re also locked on me. Fiercely.

“We need to talk,” he says.

My stomach backflips. My earlier words have had time to brew—percolate and spread through his veins like poison. Who goes on a tirade, calls their boss a chauvinist, and gets away with it? “I’m sorry about this morning. I was angry.”

Cole narrows his eyes. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You belittled me,” I fire back.

“And you served me my bullshit on a sterling-silver platter.”

I search his eyes. Amusement glitters, but his mouth remains pressed in a hard line. “I did?”

He nods once, the hint of a smile breaking through. “Brilliantly.”

The compliment lands, and an imaginary cheer squad erupts. Pom-poms shake, high kicks fly, and bodies tumble in perfect formations. I hide a smile behind my hand and rally composure. “I am sorry though.”

“Don’t apologise for being assertive, Avery.”

Assertiveis sugar-coating—minimising—wrapping shit in a shiny bow, but I’ll take it.

“Well, I am sorry for slapping you with section four. That was harsh.”

Cole’s intake of breath is sharp. “You were right.”

Nothing about it felt right.

“No.” Lowering my gaze, I pluck a red serviette from the small silver stand and twist at its corners, tearing off little pieces. “To be honest, it wasn’t unwanted, just…unbelievable.”

The truth comes as news to my ears too—a succinct summary of the sticky mess still churning inside me. And again, I’m not sure why I tell him or when I grew so brave, but something about Cole feels safe. Like I can give him my secrets and he’ll guard them like jewels. He won’t use them as weapons or soft targets.

His gaze holds mine, filled with a disarming amount of tenderness, maybe even hope, but then he winces. “Yet it was inappropriate. Especially given my position.” His shoulders rise and fall on a sigh. “Can we start again? Wipe the proverbial slate clean?”

I half smile. “That depends. Can you banish my mugshot from your brain?”

---