Page 64 of His To Erase
I couldn’t have that on my conscience.
At the hospital, he told me saving his life meant we were connected now. It was some pretty fucked-up logic, but somehow he made it make sense. He asked me to stay until the doctor came. So I did.
When they told him it wasn’t as bad as it looked—that he would just need a few stitches and a night under observation—he grinned like he’d won a bet.
He told me I was now his favorite person in the city.
I should’ve walked away right then. I should’ve let the ER doors close behind me and left him as nothing more than a crazy night wrapped in gauze and smug gratitude.
But I have no self preservation skills.
The next day, he showed up at the bar. Not with flowers or some grand gesture—just a coffee. It was somehow my order, and he sat at the end of the bar like he belonged there and then it became a pattern.
A drink always waiting before I even clocked in. Dinner. And that slow, steady smile like he had all the time in the world for me.
Frank never pushed. Not really. That’s the part that made it harder to see coming. He was all smooth lines and slow smiles. He never asked for more than I was willing to give—until suddenly, I’d given just enough to make it hard to pull away.
And now he shows up out of nowhere, flashing expensive jewelry and that same cocky look, like we’re still writing the same story.
The bellover the library door jingles as someone leaves. The soft rustle of pages and the ancient air vent’s low wheeze are the only sounds that remain.
I move through the stacks with purpose. Or at least, what I’m pretending is purpose—arms full of books I’ve already shelved once today. Maybe twice. I tell myself I’m just being thorough. Responsible, even.
The chair by the back window is empty. Again. Sunlight spills across the seat like a cosmic joke.
It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic.
I jam a book back into its spot a little too hard, wincing when the spine smacks the shelf loud enough to echo.
It’s not like I wanted to see him. I just… noticed he hadn’t been here. And okay, maybe I was actively looking. Maybe I took the long way around the return desk three separate times. Maybe I circled the philosophy section so many times I’m starting to feel like a creep in my own workplace. But apparently, the universe had other plans.
“You okay, or did Aristotle just finger your frontal lobe?”
I jump—hard. Spinning around like I’ve just been caught watching porn in a church.
Heat scorches up my neck, flushing my face so fast it makes me dizzy. I can feel the blush blooming across my cheeks like a goddamn crime scene, and of course—Sloane notices.
She leans against the end of the aisle, arms crossed, with one brow arched like she already knows what was going through my head.
She pops a piece of gum into her mouth—slow and dramatic—like this is just another Tuesday for her.
Which, honestly? It probably is.
A grin curls at her lips. “Wow. That bad, huh?”
I blink. “What?”
“That flush.” She gestures toward my face. “You look like you were two seconds away from dry humping Fifty Shades and got caught.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “I was not?—”
“Sure, sure,” she cuts in, already laughing. “So… who were you hoping to run into over here? Or should I say… who were you trying to climb?”
I freeze.
Heat flashes up the back of my neck going straight into my ears, and I fumble the stack of books like she just tasered me in the uterus.
“I’m doing my job,” I mutter, clutching the books tighter, suddenly fascinated by the nonfiction section.
