Page 112 of Freckles

It is.

The dress is a beautiful shade of blue, individual beads hand sewn across the front and back to catch the light, changing colour as the wearer moves.

My phone buzzes again with an incoming call.

“Boss? Sorry about blowing our cover. We have replacements on their way to take over if you still want to follow her.”

“Good. I should be landing at the airport in the next hour. Keep me posted on her movements until I get there.”

I take the two hangers down to my room, collecting the jewellery my uncle ordered on Francesca’s behalf after she didn’t look at the array on the cruise. A decision I suspect is more to do with the salesgirl and her commission.

But now I wonder.

Perhaps they’ve all been pushing at me to act, and I’ve been too lost in misery to see it.

I order a car, not trusting myself to drive in my current state, then jump in the shower before getting dressed in the custom fitted tuxedo.

With one last glance in the full-length mirror, I carry everything down to the waiting town car.

Time to go fetch my girl.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-NINE

FRANCESCA

Turns out,there’s nothing like a train roaring towards me at full speed to reorient my priorities. Yesterday, I worried about rent and food and clothing and if I’d ever manage to get to university like I promised my childhood self.

Today, I’m grateful to breathe and move around with all my limbs intact.

My plan went off without a hitch… until it came to talking. My prepared speech flew out of my brain faster than the train would’ve hit. The few words I do remember saying were terse rather than conciliatory— I even managed to insult the guard—and I don’t fancy my chances at a do-over.

Although I keep an eye out all afternoon, I don’t catch sight of the men who’ve been following me. It doesn’t mean they’re not there—they were on my tail long before I clicked—but being unable to see them makes me gloomy.

When a lull comes in the café service, I head to the kitchen, rinsing plates and stacking the dishwasher, bundling the cloth napkins into the laundry bag.

After the excitement of planning my risky communication strategy, even the parts of work I usually enjoy feel like a letdown.

“Chess?” my coworker calls out to me. “There’s a customer here to see you.”

Goddammit. Not another complaint.

My failure to tell the correct syrups from one another took a sharp decline this morning, and I’ve already apologised and offered free drinks to two customers irate enough to return.

I slap on a smile and walk through the connecting door, my steps faltering to a stop.

Kincaid stands at the counter. He wears a dark tuxedo that fits beautifully, and just the act of looking at him is painful.

I hang back in the doorway, just staring. The images in my imagination don’t do him justice. I forgot how muchpresencehe has. The same bearing as a commanding officer, drawing eyes just by being in the same room.

Even the customers sitting with their friends or colleagues turn to look, and Esther pretends to wipe the nearby tabletop, already squeaky clean.

My stomach performs a slow cartwheel, and it’s only when Esther clears her throat I’m prompted to move, walking behind the counter until he’s so close, I could reach out and touch him.

“Hey.”

My skin bursts into life under his stare, crawling from head to toe in the most delicious way until I shiver. When he meets my gaze, it’s like being back on the train tracks, a powerful force bearing down on me at high speed.

“Hey, yourself.” After a long, long, long time, his eyes drop to the counter, a faint frown scoring his forehead. “I’ll take a coffee to have here.”

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