Page 18 of ICED
Four-oh-five.
Four-ten.
I glance at my phone again. Nothing.
The old, familiar panic begins to slide under my skin like ice water. My hands go cold even though the kitchen’s still warm from the ovens.
She’s just late. Probably traffic. Or maybe Lila wanted a snack. Nothing to worry about. But the lie doesn’t sit well in my chest.
The bell over the front door rings and I nearly drop the spatula I’m holding.
It’s not Nadine. It’s Owen.
He fills the doorway like a misplaced grizzly bear in a hoodie, holding a pink box of something from the posh patisserie down the road.
“Alright?” he says, that easy, lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thought I’d trade in for a decent éclair and get scowled at by professionals.”
I try to smile but my lips don’t move right.
“Everything okay?” he asks, immediately frowning. “You look a bit... I dunno. Pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just waiting for Lila. She’s usually here by now.”
He glances at the clock, then back at me. “How late is she?”
“Fifteen minutes.” I sound calm. I do not feel calm.
Owen crosses the room in a few long strides and sets the box down. “Want me to call someone?”
“No. No, it’s fine. I’m sure they’re just stuck somewhere.” My fingers press into the countertop and my throat tightens.
He doesn’t argue or tell me to calm down. Just opens the pastry box and starts unpacking it, deliberately slow.
“Look at this,” he says casually. “They put gold leaf on a bloody éclair. You ever seen anything more pretentious?”
I huff a tiny breath that could be a laugh. Or a sob. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“I mean, come on,” he continues, holding it up like it’s evidence. “You could charge tuition for this. Want half?”
I shake my head. My stomach is a knot.
Owen eats it anyway, taking a ridiculous bite and getting chocolate on his cheek.
“Suppose I shouldn’t be slagging it off while also hoovering it down,” he mutters.
“I just…” I choke on the words. “I need her to walk through that door.”
His eyes soften. He puts down the half-eaten éclair and turns to face me properly.
“You ever want to tell me why this scares you so much,” he says gently, “I’ll listen.”
I nod, but I don’t speak. I can’t. The words are stuck behind a wall I built brick by brick for survival.
He doesn’t push.
Instead, he leans against the counter and starts talking nonsense. Something about Murphy losing a bet and having to do laps in a tutu, and Dylan ordering five boxes of protein bars that turned out to be vegan lies.
I don’t follow all of it. But the sound of his voice is something to hold onto.
