Page 33 of The Overtime Kiss

“What do you know? Me too,” she says, playfully. “But that wasn’t the worst part of the Garlic Palace,” she says, and I’m about to ask what was, but she keeps talking, sort of like how she did in the hotel room that night. Sharing. “The worst part was I had to stop fostering kittens.”

“That sucks,” I say, remembering her affection for fostering.

“But I still volunteer at the rescue so I get my kitten fix that way,” she says, and I learn something key about Sabrina—she definitely looks on the bright side.

I admire that about her, even though it doesn’t quite sit right with me that she had to stop.

As she sets the code, I look away.

She gasps when she walks inside, a hopeful, delighted sound. The apartment is small but inviting, with plush beige carpet and a cozy sofa in the living room. The queen-size bed in the bedroom is topped with a quilt from my mom, adding a homey touch, atop the sheets. Still, there’s not much here, and I hope she doesn’t hate it. But she says, “It’s incredible.”

Sounds like she hasn’t had a lot of that lately. She sounds, too, like she’s excited about this new chapter in her life.

Trevyn and Barbara-dor follow us, and he whistles as he takes it in. “Better than our tiny cruise ship rooms.”

Gesturing to her friend, she quickly explains, “He was my skating partner in some of the shows. And we bonded over our hatred of shrimp. They served it all the time. I don’t ever eat it, or any fish.”

“I stopped eating it. Shrimp is the worst,” Trevyn says with a shudder.

They’re just friends. Close friends, sure, and I feel a little foolish for letting jealousy get the best of me earlier. There’s something nice—warm even—about seeing Sabrina with her friends.

Friends she’s clearly chosen. Rather than at herwedding, which seemed like it was chosen for her. I relax a little more, letting go not only of my jealousy, but maybe some of my frustration over the complicated situation I’ve got myself into. It doesn’t have to be complicated at all. It can be easy, and itcan be businesslike. As long as I don’t let my feelings twist me up. And I won’t.

“Let me show you around,” I say, moving into boss mode.

The dog whimpers and that’s Trevyn’s cue to excuse himself. As he takes the dog for a walk, I give Sabrina a quick tour. Even though she could obviously figure it out on her own, I want to be a good host. Wait—a good…landlord, even though I’m not charging her rent. Thinking of myself as Sabrina’s landlord is an adjustment given all the things I once wanted to be for her.

“This is obviously the living room,” I say. “There’s the TV,” I add and immediately want to smack myself.

Of course, it’s the TV, you dipshit. She knows what a TV looks like.

She gives me a playful smile as her gaze dips to the blue sofa, and she pats the cushion on it. “And this is the sofa?”

“You know, I believe it is,” I deadpan then move toward the kitchenette, though, honestly, it’s more of a micro-kitchenette. There are two burners on a stove and a tiny fridge. “This is the kitchen area,” I say, showing her around. “But it’s not much, honestly.”

Her blue eyes are thoughtful, curious as she taps the little fridge, the kind you’d find in a hotel room. “And this thing that looks like a fridge is a fridge, right?”

“Pretty sure. But you never know. You should test it,” I say as I meet her gaze again.

She’s wearing shiny lip gloss and eyelashes—fake I think—that make her pretty eyes even harder to look away from. She has on a sky-blue tank top that covers most of her stomach.Mostbeing the operative word. She’s paired it with leggings. It’s the perfect moving attire, but it’s also a perfect distraction, with the way the material hugs her curves and shows off the tight, toned muscles in her arms.

I try to reroute my focus to the tiny stovetop, resting myhand on it. “If this isn’t enough for you, you can come upstairs and use the main kitchen. I’m happy to show you that too,” I say as I turn around, while tension rattles through me. It’s intense being near someone I’m so attracted to in so many ways. It hangs between us—the things that can never be. Or maybe it just hangs in front of me—my own reminder.

“Tyler, I love it all,” she says, her tone genuine and no longer teasing.

I look back at her as she gestures to the sea of suitcases, boxes, and milk crates. “I’ve been living in a micro-studio without a shower. This feels like a mansion to me.”

The heartfelt tone in her voice makes my chest squeeze, but her prior situation pisses me off. “Why? What happened?”

Sure, I know what happened on her wedding day and night. But I mean it more specifically—what went down the morning after.

Trouble is, now I feel terrible that I never really asked how she was doing—reallydoing—all the times I saw her at skating lessons. I didn’t truly check in with her. We agreed to pretend that night never happened and somehow, I took that to the letter, never asking about the other things that went wrong. Like with her other job, and her parents.

“I mean, how did you wind up there? In that place?” I ask quickly, trying to course correct.

She brushes some errant blonde strands off her cheek. “Rhonda,” she says brightly.

It takes me a few seconds to connect the dots. “The…Lyft driver? With the mismatched slides?”

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