Page 65 of His To Erase
“Uh-huh.” Sloane leans against the shelf, one brow raised, her smirk is full of judgment and unholy delight. “Must be a riveting morning if you’ve alphabetized the same section four times.”
“I’m not looking for anyone,” I snap.
Instant regret.
Her grin stretches. “Didn’t say you were.”
I roll my eyes and shove the last book into place with a little too much force. “Do you ever—like—not talk?”
She taps her chin, pretending to be deep in thought. “Only when I’m asleep. Maybe. Honestly, I’d have to ask someone.”
I hate how easy it is to smile around her. I also hate how she sees through every single mask I try to wear, and still chooses to show up like I’m worth the effort.
“You’re the worst,” I tell her, biting back a grin that she absolutely doesn’t deserve.
She winks. “And yet, here I am. Saint fucking Sloane.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Have I ever told you you’ve got a real gift for compliments?”
She leans on the edge of the cart, grinning. “One time in high school, I told a guy he had serial killer eyes. You’d think that’d be a dealbreaker, right? He asked me out the next day.”
I blink. “Did you go?”
“Obviously,” she deadpans. “I wasn’t gonna let all that opportunity go to waste. I made him take me to Olive Garden. Unlimited breadsticks or bust.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It feels... good. I almost forgot how easy it was to just be.
She nudges me with her elbow. “See? I’m good for something.”
I open my mouth to agree—but something about the way she says it flicks a switch in my brain.
I’m good for something.
My smile falters. Just long enough that I have to look away, forcing a soft chuckle so she doesn’t see.
“You, my friend, are deeply unwell,” I say instead, going back to our usual playful as I shove the cart forward.
“All the time.” She tosses her ponytail like it’s a badge of honor. “But at least I’m consistent.”
The rest of the shift drags. There’s a lull around lunch that leaves too much time to think, and not enough distraction to keep my brain from spiraling.
I glance at the door every time the bell chimes telling myself I’m just hoping for something interesting. That I’m bored, and it’s not him I’m waiting for.
God, I’m a mess.
By the time I clock out, I’m ready to call it a day and finally do what I actually wanted—go stare at buildings like I originally planned with Sarah. She was going to help me scope out a few spaces, something small with potential. Something that could actually be mine.
Some of that excitement starts to creep back in, bubbling just enough to remind me what hope feels like.
But fate, apparently, has other ideas. Because the second I step out from the break room, Frank’s standing there. He’s leaning near the front desk, hands in his pockets, black button-down rolled at the sleeves, and dark slacks hugging his frame.
His shirt’s unbuttoned just enough to flash the edge of ink across his collarbone. The dark leather watch strapped to his wrist probably costs more than my rent, and the stubble lining his jaw is trimmed with obsessive precision.
He looks like a GQ cover boy with a secret body count and zero remorse. I don’t hate it, but he’s also not Tattoo man.Where did that come from?
He pushes off the counter with that lazy, crooked smile sliding into place like muscle memory.
“Hey,” he says, casually, like we do this all the time. Like it’s normal for him to pop up at my job looking like the human embodiment of a red flag with a Rolex.
