Page 36 of Atlas
“If this is a date, you must be single.” I want to laugh. Is he serious? He thinks anyone would want to date me! He’s staring at me now, waiting for a response. “Unless you’re with someone?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not with anyone.”
“Good,” he says, his smile returning. He finishes his coffee. “Cos I didn’t want to beat anyone to death and ruin my good mood.” My eyes widen and he laughs.“Kidding.”
But I’m not shocked at what he said, I’m shocked at how excited it made me feel. My Dad was right; I read way too much romance.
God help me, I like him. Not just in ahe’s hot and makes my insides fizzkind of way. But in aI want to keep talking to him until the café closes, until the sun comes up, until I’ve accidentally told him all my secretskind of way. And that’s terrifying.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he says after a beat.
“What question?”
“Your past relationships.”
Ah, yes. That fun topic. I stir the cold remains of my pistachio latte like the froth might suddenly offer wisdom. “There’s not much to say,” I admit. “A few dates. One almost-relationship. Nothing worth putting in a scrapbook.”
“Why?” he asks, not cruel, just curious.
I sigh, giving a half-shrug. “I used to think it was me. Like maybe I wasn’t enough. Not pretty enough or interesting enough or . . . whatever enough.” He frowns, and suddenly his whole-body changes, like I’ve triggered something in him, something protective. “But then I realised,” I go on, trying to play it cool, “I just hadn’t met someone who made me want to stay around long enough to show them the real me.”
His gaze sharpens. “You’ve been waiting for the wrong people.”
I smile, soft and a little sad. “Story of my life.”
He stretches, muscles shifting under the sleeves of his t-shirt. His knuckles are rough. His nails are short. He looks like someone who’s built things, broken things, fought for things. He looks like someone who feels too much and hides it behind smirks and sarcasm.
I’m in trouble.
“So,” I say, desperate to shift the conversation before I spontaneously combust, “if this was a date, hypothetically, what would happen next?”
He leans forward again, slow and deliberate. “Easy,” he says. “I’d walk you home.”
I snort. “Wow. Living on the edge.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” He grins. “I’m thinking very inappropriate things while doing it.”
I nearly choke on my latte.
Yeah. I’mdefinitelyin trouble.
Anita
I drop into the seat opposite Tessa and release a breath that feels like it’s been stuck in my chest for days.
She glances up from her laptop. “You okay?”
I give a shrug that I hope reads asnot now, but she doesn’t buy it.
“Okay,” she says, snapping the laptop shut, “out with it.”
I stare at the table for a beat, gathering the chaos into something I can say out loud. “It’s just been a rough couple days.Damien won’t let me see Leo, I walked out on dinner with my parents, and Atlas isn’t speaking to me.”
Tessa sits up straighter, her expression shifting like I’ve just given her a test she wasn’t prepared for. “How come?”
She says it casually, but there’s something off in her tone—a little too light, a little too rehearsed.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
