Page 20 of Until the Storm Breaks
“There are literally dozens of guys who come in here just to flirt with you,” I point out, leaning against the counter.
“Ugh, I know.” She makes a face, pointing her knife at me before going back to cutting prep. “That contractor last week left his number on a napkin. With a winky face. Who does that?”
“Someone shooting their shot?” I ask.
“More like shooting themselves in the foot. He was weird.” But she’s laughing. “I don’t know. Maybe I should try. Get back out there.” Her voice drops a little. “But sometimes I still catch myself about to ask permission for the stupidest things. Like ordering a different coffee, or wearing a dress that shows my shoulders. Three years of Brandon really messed with my head.”
The shift makes me set down the glass I’m polishing. “Brandon was a controlling asshole.”
“Yeah, well. That controlling asshole had me convinced I was lucky he put up with me.” She abandons the prep, leaning against the bar. I notice how her shoulders tighten at just saying his name. “Six months out and I’m still figuring out what I actually like versus what I was allowed to like.”
The truth about Lark’s marriage still makes me want to key her ex’s truck. He’d found her at twenty-one, told her she was ‘perfect just as she was,’ then spent three years training her to be smaller. The possessive type who’d check her phone, hate her friends, accuse her of cheating every time she worked late.
I walk around the bar to her side, putting my hands on her shoulders. “Listen to me. You’re brilliant, funny, gorgeous, andyou can deadlift more than most of the guys who come in here. Not to mention an amazing singer who’ll be famous when you get out of your own way. Brandon was threatened by all of that. That’s on him, not you.”
“I know that logically?—”
“No,reallyknow it. That contractor with the winky face? The gym guys who forget how to count reps when you walk by? They see what Brandon was too insecure to handle. You’re the full package, Lark. Don’t let his voice in your head tell you otherwise.”
She blinks hard, looks away toward the bottles lined up behind the bar. “Damn it, don’t make me cry before we open.”
“I mean it. You’re basically the only reason this place runs smoothly. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for. And when you’re ready to date again, whoever you choose is going to be lucky as hell.”
“Careful,” she says, but her voice is thick. “You’re going to give me delusions of adequacy.”
I squeeze her shoulders. “You should have all the confidence in the world. You’re amazing, Lark. Own it.”
She laughs, a watery sound. I can see her physically pulling herself together, straightening her spine.
“Besides,” I add, trying to lighten the moment, “if we ever decide to give up on men altogether, we’ll just become old biddies who run this bar and read romance novels like Eleanor.”
Lark snorts, wiping her eyes. “Live in a place with a dozen cats?”
“All named after different cheeses. We’ll be legends.”
“Sadly, I think you and I are both too much of hopeless romantics for that.” She shakes her head, picks up her knife again, movements steadier now. “We’ll keep believing in the fairytale even when all evidence suggests we should know better.”
“Probably true.” I hate that my mind goes to Calvin.
She goes back to her prep work, the rhythm of her cutting more confident now. “Okay, enough feelings. Since I’m benched from the dating game, you’re my only source of romantic entertainment.” Her grin turns wicked again, back to safer territory. “So really, you need to do something about Professor Coffee Guy for both our sakes.”
“Like I said, we’re just sharing a kitchen.”
“Right. And he just rushed over here with his toolbox and his forearms and his cologne because he’s really passionate about espresso machines.”
I roll my eyes and move to start counting the register. Through the windows, I can see the sun starting to drop lower, painting everything in warmer tones. We need to finish prep soon, but my mind won’t stop drifting back to him.
Yeah. I’mdefinitelyin so much trouble.
CHAPTER 6
CALVIN
I’m leaning against my truck at 5:45 AM, texting Jack for the third time.Where are you?
Be right there,he finally responds.Two minutes.
While I wait, I watch Maren’s cabin windows. Still dark. She got home around ten last night from the bar, and I heard her laughing at something, probably Laila being ridiculous. The sound traveled through the walls and made me want to knock on her door and ask what was funny, just talk to her about nothing important. Instead I lay there like an idiot, listening to her get ready for bed, trying not to picture her in the shower we share.
