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“Butterfly?”
The first strains of dawn touch his face, barely illuminating the half-smile that twitches on his lips. He nods at my hair. “Your clip.”
For fluff’s sake. I have my oh-so-childish, completely mortifying butterfly clip nestled in my hair.
It was the first thing my fingers touched when I rifled through my shoebox of accessories in the dark. I didn’t want to linger and wake my roommates, so I grabbed it to hold my bangs out of my eyes while I scaled the roof.
I forgot it has little springs to give it movement. Now, as I cringe, pink, sparkly wings flutter against my curls.
Gads.
The almost-alpha keeps smirking as his eyes drop to my book. “I’ve heard you up here the last few mornings, but I didn’t realize you were hosting a book club.”
My giggle sounds nervous. I squash it and sniff. “If it were a book club, there would be snacks. And probably other people.”
He leans back on his palms and shrugs again. “I’m another person.”
I blink at him, convinced that I must be missing some sort of joke. “You… are.”
That quick not-quite-a-smile twinges up again. “Then I guess all we need now are snacks.”
chapter
one
This is fine.
Nothing to see here.
Grunting, I lean back and tug on the enormous canvas bag of coffee beans blocking our aisle-way. The sack inches across the floor of Proper Coffee while I stagger backward, using all of my strength to pull it around the bar.
Good Lord.
Is it time to go home yet?
Nope. It’s not even eight a.m. And everyone is staring at me.
Fantastic.
My manager is a young beta guy who almost never looks up from his TikTok feed. His thumb rolls over the screen hovering under his hooked nose. His voice sounds bored. “You good, Remi?”
Me?
Oh, I’m great.
My hands are raw from towing big canvas bags, and my fingers are numb from the weight of the latest one. Not to mention the pinch in my lower back. Or the fact that I haven’t taken a full breath in about eight minutes.
“Yep,” I pant, yanking harder. “All.” Tug. “Good.” Tug.
You know, given how often I conceal the truth, I really am an appallingly bad liar. How does anyone believe me? I wonder as I straighten and catch my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the espresso machine.
Staring at my face, all I see are fibs. In the layer of concealer caked under my eyes; see, I’m not tired. In the cream blush blended into my too-sharp cheekbones; look, I’m glowing with happiness.
None of it is honest, but the smile on my lips is particularly egregious. Slicked with some sort of tingly lip-plumping gloss. Wide, white, and positively thrumming with dopey doe-eyed optimism.
Pretty, though.
Just like the apartment I left before dawn, I’m a collection of cleverly disguised shabbiness. Pink paint smoothed over the craggy walls. Jars of fake flowers to cover water-rings on my second-hand furniture. Scented candles to mask the slight sourness of mildew. Thin curtains and bright sunlight to fill the cracks in the ceiling.
