Page 6 of Love Letters from a Libra
I capped my pen. “Look, if you’re going to distract me?—”
He raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes were smiling. That was when I realized I was enjoying this, the banter and unexpected company. Maybe I hadn’t come here to write after all.PerhapsI craved his connection more than I cared to admit.
The barista dropped off the drinks.
“Thank you,” he told her.
I closed my notebook. “I’m clearly not getting any work done, so we might as well talk.”
“I was hoping you would say that.”
“So, what do you do when you’re not talking to strangers in coffee shops?” I asked.
His mouth quirked at the corner. “I fix things.”
I waited for the elaboration that didn’t come. “That’s vague. You fix what? Cars?”
He sipped his tea. “Systems. I work in cybersecurity.”
“You mean you’re a hacker?”
“I prefer a digital problem solver. Companies hire me to find their vulnerabilities before the bad guys do.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice.
I caught myself glancing at the tribal tattoo sleeve winding up his arm. It was intricate, not the typical design you saw everywhere. It was more specific, like it was telling a story. I looked up at his eyes that seemed darker, but maybe it was the light shifting from the window.
“What about you? Is your blog your only creative outlet?”
“At the moment, yeah. However, I would hardly call today creative. Mercury retrograde horoscopes are the worst to write. Everyone expects doom and gloom. Still, I try to find the silver linings in them.”
“And do you find the silver linings?”
I shrugged. “I didn’t get that far. I’ve been talking to you.”
“Do you regret it?” Jules asked.
I considered his question before answering. “No,” I admitted finally.
He smiled. “You seem like someone who rereads your old journals on your birthday. You probably light a candle, laugh, or shed a little tear. And you definitely smell books before buying them.”
I blinked. I did exactly that on my birthday last week. Sat on the floor with my tea, reading old journal entries like they were love letters from past versions of me.
“How did you . . .?” I didn’t finish my question.
Jules shrugged, his expression soft. “I guessed. You seem to be someone who appreciates the sensory experience of things.”
It was a sweet, reasonable answer. Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my purse in quick succession. The group chat was blowing up.
“Sorry,” I muttered, reaching for my phone.
Jules made a ‘go ahead’ gesture and sat back in his chair.
I glanced at the screen.
Toni:
Zanaa, are you at the cafe? We’re heading over.
Rell:
