Page 106 of Mine to Love

It isn’t until I’m wiping down the counter after dinner and moving the two vases of flowers aside to clean that I muster up the courage–or the stupidity–to respond. Not in a text. He hasn’t messaged my phone in weeks.

Instead, I find a pad of paper and write out a short message. Stuffing it in an envelope, I lick the flap and hurry down the front steps in my bare feet. The cold late October air is cold, and my toes freeze on the pavement. I stick the envelope under my wiper and jog back inside.

If he doesn’t come by in the morning with another note and flowers, it’s his loss. This is the only opportunity I’ll give him.

Drawing water for a bath, I run through all the possibilities. What if he means the ball is in my court to reach out to him? What if he doesn’t come by and see the note?

Too many what ifs. For tonight, I sink in the bubbles and refuse to think about Logan and the possibility of seeing him tomorrow morning.

I fail. Epically.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I find a seat in the back corner of Jitters and Java not caring that I take up a table and haven’t ordered anything yet. The note Reese left me burns a hole in the pocket of my jeans. I contemplated not leaving the flowers I had for her and giving them to her in person, but I’m not sure how she’ll react, or if she even kept the others I left for her this week. I ended up leaving them on her windshield but kept the note I wrote for her in my car.

My heart races, even without a cup of coffee, and I find myself more nervous than the day I bought my first company. More nervous than when I sold off pieces of it a decade later. Looking down at my watch for the tenth time, I frown when I still have ten minutes before she said she’ll be getting coffee.

The bell above the door chimes and, like Pavlov’s dog, I snap my head up. Reese is wearing a white knit cap and baggy maroon sweatshirt over tight jeans with rips on the thighs. She doesn’t look around the shop and is transfixed on the board behind the register studying it intensely like she has no idea what to order, when I know—as does she—it will be a caramel latte.

I appreciate how hard she’s trying to appear casual, like she doesn’t care if I’m here or not. I hadn’t replied to her invite if I can even call it that.

I’m going out for coffee in the morning around eight, and then I have things to do.

The note didn’t say where, and it didn’t need to. She has a favorite place, and I prayed she hadn’t found a new spot in the past six weeks. Slowly, I slide out of my seat and join her in line.

Her shoulders are tense, and she gives no hint that she’s aware of my presence, only a foot behind her. When it’s her turn in line, I resist offering to pay for her order. Most women would appreciate it, and one thing I learned—quickly—is that Reese isn’t most women.

When she pays and steps aside to wait in the pick-up line, I place my order, then move to stand by her, still not saying a word. My hands itch to touch her. To stroke her hair, her cheek. To thread our fingers together. I’m barely able to resist the temptation to lean in and inhale her jasmine scent.

Our coffees are ready at the same time. My simple black java takes seconds to pour while her caramel latte Grande needed an extra minute to prepare.

I followed her to the same table I vacated minutes before and sit across from her.

You’re beautiful. I’ve missed you more than you can imagine. I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.

Words are hard with her so close. Even over the rich aroma of coffee that permeate the air, I can smell her sweet jasmine lotion.

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