Page 85 of Because of Dylan

Gus cuts him off. “No, I got your money right here.” He counts again. Slowly. It’s all in one-dollar bills.

I grab my phone from my pocket. What’s taking her so long? Come on, River, call me already. If Jerk Face is stupid enough to push Gus, it will get ugly, and I so don’t want to mop blood off the floors.

My phone buzzes. A text instead of a call.

River: Incoming.

Incoming? What the heck does that mean?

River: And before you ask, I’m using voice to text. I’m good. Driving home. Thanks, best friend.

I don’t want to text back and distract her.

River: I want all the details. All of them.

I glance up at Gus and nod. He stops counting the money and steps aside. “Okay, man.”

Jerk Face runs out. I stare at my phone again. Incoming. I don't understand what she’s talking about.

The bells over the door ding. I look up.

Dylan walks in.

Incoming, indeed.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

What is he doing here?

Dylan approaches, his gaze on me the entire time. He looks amazing in gray sweatpants, a hoodie, and a ski jacket—last year's lift tickets still dangling from a hook. He has a couple days' scruff on his face. He takes the same seat River vacated.

I finish unloading a rack of clean glasses onto a shelf before walking to him. “Hey. I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Me too.”

“What do you mean?” I try to stuff my hands into my back pockets before remembering I’m wearing leggings with no pockets. I cross my arms behind my back instead.

“I couldn’t sleep. Normally I’d go for a run, but not with this weather.” His fingers tap a light tattoo on the counter.

“So … you went for a ride instead?” I grip my elbows.

“Yeah and somehow ended up here.” His gaze is fixed on me.

We’re silent for several moments. I scramble for something to say. Nothing comes to me. We stare at each other. Then the bell over the door dings again. My local is back from his smoke, and so is Jerk Face. He finds Gus talking to the other two locals at the opposite end of the bar. Takes his seat back. “Where’s my change?”

His tone is accusatory, like he didn’t leave in a hurry. His cheeks are red. Anger turns what otherwise would be a nice face into a caricature of itself.

I turn my back to him. Gus can deal with it. “Can I get you a Dos Equis?”

“No, thanks. Maybe something warm?” His fingers trace the wood grain on the bar top, back and forth. What would they feel like on my skin?

“A coffee, then?”

“Probably not the best idea when I already have trouble falling asleep.” His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Yes, that would be great, thanks.”

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