Page 50 of My Heart to Find

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Jana

“HE DIDN’T EVEN TRYto kiss me yesterday.” I shake my head as I stare at Lizzy, then I tie my apron strings behind my back. There’s a huge stain on the front of my apron from before my break, where I was trying to clean the coffee machine earlier and part of it exploded. Bet Mr. Richards is going to have a go at me about that. Got to look presentable for the customers.

“But you’re both ace anyway?” Lizzy frowns.

“Doesn’t mean we can’t kiss. Ace people can kiss if they want to.”

“So, does he want to?” Lizzy asks. “Like, did you ask him if kissing is okay with him?”

“No, I didn’t ask him.” I sigh. I mean, asking that would’ve sounded ridiculous. And so forward too.

“Text him,” Lizzy tells me. “Ask him on another date.”

“You can do your socializing after work,” Mr. Richards bellows. “I don’t pay you to stand about, idly chatting about whatever nonsense is filling up your heads.”

I glare at him.

Later, I mouth at Lizzy.

Yes, I’ll text Damien later. I smile to myself.

There aren’t many customers in today, and thankfully my next two order pots of tea rather than coffee so I don’t have to wrestle with the machine again.

As Lizzy and I work, Mr. Richards keeps that hawk eye of his on us. Twice, I see him looking at Lizzy’s cleavage. Each time, she pretends not to notice.

The bell rings as the door opens again, and a man steps in. He’s mixed race, well over six foot, with dark hair and a way of moving that just screams urgency. Within a second of opening the door, he’s clocked me and leapt toward me so quickly and with so much vigor that I nearly drop the teapot I’m holding.

“Have you seen her?” The man holds up a piece of paper inches from my face. I lean back a bit, heart pounding, as my eyes focus. It’s a printed photo of Marnie Wathem. I look back at the man and I think recognize him from some appeal I saw on TV. Maybe her brother? Damn. What was his name? I can’t remember.

“No, sorry,” I say. “I haven’t seen her.”

“No chatting to your friends,” Mr. Richards’s voice booms from behind me and I jump.

“She’s helping me,” the man says, curtly. “I’m looking for my sister.” He moves toward Mr. Richards, shoving the photo of Marnie in front of him. “Have you seen her?”

Mr. Richards—with barely a look at the poster in the man’s hands—barks, “No!”

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