Page 87 of Invisible String
“Pardon me. My name is Max Cano.”
“Hmm. Do you go around picking up women everywhere you go?” Fuck. Now I sound jealous. Okay, maybe I am a little.
“No.” He watches me with heat in his smooth green eyes. “I’ve never met anyone worth asking.”
I roll my eyes. What a load of horseshit. Women would beg at his feet to be touched by him, especially if he’s been grinning like a fool since he walked in. The woman at the fighting grounds said so herself. He seems lighter; maybe it’s all those hits to the head.
“Here you go.” I hand him his debit card. “Sorry, sir. I’m not interested. Besides, I have a date tonight.”
His smile evaporates, and his jaw tenses. Is he jealous? Why? It’s been years. “With who?”
“I don’t need to inform you of my love life,” I hiss.
“Love life.” He says those words with disgust. His nostrils flare, and his fists clench on the counter.
“Yes. Love life. Max, you can’t just show up and expect me to tell you what I do with my life when you clearly didn’t want to be in it.”
His throat works. “With who?” he asks again.
The strings at my heart tug at how his eyes plead to know. I rub my wrist out of habit. He averts his gaze to where my hands are.
He sighs and grabs his food.
“Book boyfriend,” I blurt. The words slip out of my lips unintendedly.
Max cocks his head, then furrows at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I have a date with a book. You know, cuddle with a blanket and get lost in a book.”
His raised brows tell he’s still confused. “Why, boyfriend? Why not just say book?”
“A book boyfriend is a male character in the story who makes you feel gooey inside. Sexy, says the most perfect words, makes you kick your feet up. Long list.” I turn aside when a woman walks in. She smiles, and I return it. She marches right to a special edition that just came out.
“Huh.” He sweeps his stubble chin with his thumb. “Oh, all right. Maybe next time.” He takes a step back. “Enjoy your night.” He nods, then sits at a table. The sun’s rays glint on his golden skin, and the chiseled angles of his cheekbones and jawline accentuate his muscular strength.
“Here,” Isabella whispers. She hands me a napkin.
My nose crinkles.
“You’re drooling.”
I scoff. I am not. The right thing to do is to get back to work and ignore that Max is sitting less than a foot away. The espresso machine could use a cleaning. My brows quirk as Isabella adds two strawberry scones and a concha to a plate. She points to Max. I shake my head at her.
She mouths. “You overcharged him.” Then she fluidly sets it on his table. “Here’s a little treat. The owner just made them.”
He cranes his neck to her and bestows her with a warm smile. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. My husband loves watching your fights. Can I have your autograph?” She slides a napkin to him. An ego-boosting laugh vibrates from his chest.
Kiss ass.
“What should we watch?”Bethany asks, flipping through the same shows, repeatedly snuggling with a blanket on the recliner.
From the other sofa, lazily, I respond to her slothful, frowning face. “You’ve been giving me whiplash, flipping through it. Just pick something already. I’m going to read, anyway. I need to catch up on a series.”
My sister is the couch potato type of gal, while I’m the one who has gotten lost in books since I was small.
Bethany groans, snuggling deeper into the blanket until it covers her mouth. “I don’t get how you can read book after book.”
