Page 33 of Atlas
“She’s not like that.” I say it too fast, too defensive, and I know I’ve given myself away.
Fletch raises a brow. “Didn’t say she was. But if your game’s good, she’ll be whatever you want her to be.”
I shoot him a glare and spritz on some aftershave, hoping it masks how wound-up I suddenly feel. “Can’t you go bug Gemma?”
“She’s busy,” he mutters, pushing off the frame with a dramatic sigh. “And now, you’re ditching me to have coffee with a librarian.”
That one lands wrong. I turn to him slowly, feeling the shift in my mood settle across my shoulders. He must see it because his smirk fades.
“Joking,” he says quickly. “Shit, Atlas, don’t look at me like that.”
I don’t respond, just grab my kutte from the back of the chair. “Keep an eye on Kasey,” I say instead, my tone sharp enough to cut. “She’s not to leave this place.”
“Got it,” Fletch replies, more serious now.
Kasey’s been itching to get out, pacing the walls like a caged animal. I can’t blame her, not really, but I can’t let her go either. Not until we figure out what the hell we’re doing with her.
I shrug on my kutte, take one last look at myself in the mirror, and try to shake off the feeling that I’m heading into something I’m not ready for.
Just coffee.
But nothing about Rue feels casual.
The café she picked isn’t like the ones I’d usually step into. Too many fairy lights strung across the ceiling, weird, mismatched mugs on every table, and a chalkboard menu with terrible handwriting.
But then I spot her.
She’s already at a table by the window, legs crossed, a book open in her lap, and her glasses sliding down her nose. Her hair is up in some messy twist, and there’s a coffee cup in front of her with something pink and foamy on top. Of course, she ordered something with foam art.
She hasn’t seen me yet, so I pause for a second and just watch her.
She licks her finger and turns a page, eyebrows scrunching like whatever she’s reading is serious business. I’m halfway across the room before she looks up, and when she does, she startles so hard, she nearly knocks her drink over.
“Sorry,” she blurts, scrambling to close the book and bumping the table in the process. “I was . . . reading,obviously. Hi.”
“Hi.” I bite down a smile and slide into the seat across from her. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t . . . well, you did, but it’s fine.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and won’t quite meet my eyes. “You’re, uh, early.”
“You’re adorable when you panic,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes snap to mine, wide, and then her cheeks colour. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Can I get you one?” I counter, nodding at her half-drunk cup. “A fresh one.”
She glances at it. “This one has gone a little cold,” she admits. “I got so lost in the book . . .”
“What are you reading?”
She hesitates. “A fantasy novel.”
“And that’s about . . .?”
Her eyes are suddenly alight with passion. “There’s a necromancer, and a banshee prince, and a haunted carriage that eats people . . .” She trails off, clearly realising how that sounds. “Sorry, that’s weird, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “Sounds better than real life.”
She nods with enthusiasm. “That’s why I love to read so much. My dad hated my books,” she tells me, almost like she couldn’t stop the words even if she wanted to. “So, I’d sneak them in and read under the covers at night.”
