Page 66 of His To Erase
I blink. “What… are you doing here?”
His grin deepens. “Picking you up for our date. I told you we were going.”
My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.
Brain fog’s a bitch, but I know I didn’t agree to that. I would’ve remembered agreeing to a date with the man who gives charming narcissism its own zip code.
“I—when did I agree to that?”
He shrugs. “You said you were off today. I figured I’d take you somewhere nice. You’ve been working too hard.”
My mouth is halfway to saying no when I feel Sloane step up behind me, close enough that I feel her smile through the back of my skull.
“If you don’t want him, I will,” she whispers, giddy and completely useless.
I elbow her without looking. “You’re not helping.”
She backs off, humming something filthy under her breath. I make a mental note to bring that up later.
My eyes cut back to Frank—who’s still watching us with that smug, unbothered expression of his.
“I didn’t tell you I work here,” I say, crossing my arms before I can stop them. The words come out sharper than I meant—but not sharp enough to regret. Not that I owe him anything.
The bar was one thing. But the library? This is mine. He doesn’t know where I live either—and that’s not an accident. Our entire relationship so far has been bar flirting, dinner, occasional texting, and him showing up with smug persistence like a handsome virus I haven’t shaken yet.
Until recently, “date” wasn’t even on the list. And now… here he is. Inside my library.
“You mentioned it.” His tone’s too light to be innocent.
I hadn’t planned on seeing him today. I had plans—real ones with Sarah that were long overdue.
“Did I?” I ask, voice dry.
He shrugs, all charm. “You probably don’t remember. We’ve talked about a lot.”
And just like that, I feel like the asshole, because wehavetalked. There was that one night he sent me a meme at two a.m. about red flags and said it reminded him of me.
I told him to go fuck himself. But I laughed. Maybe I’ve been leading him on or maybe I just liked the attention, or the consistency. The idea of someone choosing me over and over—even if it’s for the wrong reasons, makes me feel wanted on some fucked up level.
I glance at my phone. The map is still open with all the listings I planned to check out today. I was supposed to spend it chasing something that felt like mine. Not detouring into whatever the hell this is.
A small pang of guilt tugs in my chest. Sarah’s going to be so pissed. She was going to be my designated hype girl, dressed in black with iced coffee and way too many unsolicited opinions about which places “gave off emotionally stable vibes.”
I shoot her a text.
Me: Change of plans. Raincheck on building-stalking. Blame GQ Barbie. Also… if I go missing, check his trunk first.
A beat later, the bubbles appear.
Sarah: Excuse me?? YOU’RE ON A DATE?? With the man who looks like he bench presses trust issues?? I hate you. Go. Have. Fun. But text me the second he starts talking in riddles or offers you a diamond collar.
I snort under my breath and lock the screen. So much for not getting guilt-tripped into a date I never agreed to.
But he’s here and he’s… trying right? Sort of. This is the kind of attention most girls would kill for, so why do I feel so bothered by it?
Maybe this is what taking it slow looks like. What it’s supposed to feel like.
The bracelet from last night is still sitting on my kitchen counter—unopened, and untouched, and suddenly I feel like a dick.
