Page 85 of Bound to a Killer
He glances up briefly, brown eyes dulled out by the dark circles beneath them from long nights gaming. “Thanks,” he says, then sweeps a tired glance around the café before dropping his gaze back to his phone.
“Shit,” he mutters, his thumb dragging across the finger-smudged screen, still more focused on that than on what I said.
“Anyways,” I continue, “I asked Becca earlier if I could take the leftover faux vines in the back and she gave me the thumbs up. So I was just wondering if I could head out, since it’s not busy and I’ve got to walk home with the box.”
His brows knit together, the pace of his thumbs picking up speed as he grunts something indecipherable.
“What?” I ask, my arms prickling from the AC blasting inside. “If not, then that’s okay…”
“Damnit!” He jerks his head back, a flicker of red flashing across his face as he exhales and slaps the device against wrinkled khakis. He glances back at me. “Sorry, what’d you say?”
“I was just seeing if you’re okay with me leaving early,” I repeat more quickly, almost mumbling my words. “But it’s fine if you need me to stay.”
He stuffs his phone away, replacing it with a pack of cigarettes, then fishes a lighter from his back pocket. “Yeah, sure, you can leave.”
“Really?” I ask, a flicker of excitement catching in my chest as I lower my arms. “Do you want me to do anything else before I go?”
He slips a skinny cigarette between his fingers and lights it. “Nah, I got it from here. You always cover for me with Becca, so I owe you one.”
Relief slips out on a sigh as I drop my arms away, quickly untying the back of my apron. “Thanks, Oliver.”
He ducks out back for a smoke before I leave, and I slip through the little swinging door to the back room, brushing past the whiteboard where our schedules hang, then crouch to dig the box from a low shelf beside the freezer.
I’ve always wondered if Becca knows how much things like this mean to me. Sometimes I’ve even caught her smiling as I walked out with a box propped on my hip, but the moment Iglanced back, she’d turn away, coughing into her fist and barking orders at Oliver. Stern, but not unkind.
She’ll never call it affection, but there’s something protective in the way she looks out for us. Maybe not quite as much as she cares for the café, but close enough. Part of me wonders if she really couldn’t find anyone to take my place, or if she just kept my position open in case I came back.
I punch out and give Oliver a small wave through the cracked back door before heading out, backpack slung over my shoulders and the box cradled in the crook of my arms.
The fresh sweetness of hyacinths drifts from the patch along the walkway, sharper than expected in the cool breeze as I round the corner, my hair swooshing behind me. I draw in a deep breath, the scent of damp earth crisp with florals and bright grass threading together into a soulful cleanse.
The season of new beginnings. Fresh starts.
The box’s corners dig into my hipbone, so I shift it, hiking it higher against me. It’s not heavy, just unnecessarily cumbersome for a few garlands, though that’s not enough to bother me today. My steps are carrying an extra bounce than usual. I’m already imagining where to hang the vines, mapping it all in my head before I’ve even made it halfway down the block.
“Aria!” a deep voice booms from behind.
I turn slightly, just enough to see Jayce catching up to me, sucking in deep breaths as he slows his pace. He flashes a dimpled smile. “You’re off early? Weren’t you going to wait for me?”
My grin broadens, the stress of the world slipping past me as I carry on, still buzzing with excitement over the box in my hands. His gaze drops to it.
“Here, let me get that for you,” he says, reaching over to take it. His hand brushes past mine, swift and featherlike.
The contact startles me enough to loosen my grip, lettinghim take over despite a flicker of hesitance. “I was okay holding it, but thanks.”
“What’s inside?” he asks, peeking through the sliver where the Scotch tape crosses the top.
I adjust the bag over my shoulder. “A nest of snakes.”
“Funny,” he deadpans, eyeing me with mock suspicion, his lips still stretched in a smile. “What’s really in it?”
We reach a crosswalk, both of us glancing each way before stepping onto the road. “Just leftover vine garlands from work. Nothing special.”
“Oh, cool. Is that part of prom prep?”
My fingers tighten around the straps across my shoulders, unease creeping in under his scrutiny. “Uh, no, just a side project.”
“Crafty,” he says, a playful cadence to his voice. “I like it.”
