Page 62 of His Surrender

The silence in the apartment is almost unsettling. Dean and Liana left hours ago.

Normally, I’d be grateful for the peace and quiet.

Today, it just feels lonely.

I lean back in my chair, letting my eyes drift toward the windows overlooking Manhattan.

I shouldn’t care that Dean barely looked at me this morning.

He’s my boss. If anything, that’s a good thing.

Maybe we’d started getting a little too comfortable, living together. Perhaps he realized it before I did.

Still … the memory of his clipped, one-worded answers keeps replaying in my head.

I pull my knees up against my chest.

Did I do something?

The question has been circling my brain all morning. Maybe yesterday finally crossed a line.

What if he regrets inviting me to spend so much time with him?

Maybe—

I stop myself. No, I’m not doing this. I’m not going to invent problems that probably don’t exist. Besides … I have enough real problems.

I glance at my laptop again. Six more applications. That makes twenty-three since moving to New York.

I lean back in my chair and look back out at Manhattan. I’m living in the most amazing city in the world. I refuse to let myself become one of those people who sits around, waiting for life to happen.

I need to get out of this apartment. Even if it’s only for an hour.

The little café beside the building is busier than I expected for a Saturday afternoon.

The smell of fresh coffee and cinnamon greets me the second I step inside. This is exactly what I need.

I order an iced vanilla latte and a blueberry muffin before finding an empty table by the front windows.

For twenty blissfully uninterrupted minutes, I manage not to think about Dean at all.

Instead, I watch people walking dogs, couples pushing strollers, and tourists taking pictures of buildings they’ll probably never remember the names of.

My cup is empty by the time I decide to head back upstairs.

As I step outside, someone rounds the corner at the exact same time.

“Oh!” I gasp as my hand goes to my heart.

I stumble backward just enough to keep from crashing into him.

“I’m so sorry,” he says quickly, reaching out as if to steady me before thinking better of it. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

I smile. “It’s okay. I wasn’t exactly paying attention either.”

He laughs. “I guess we’re both guilty.”

He’s probably in his early thirties, dressed casually in dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip with sunglasses resting on top of his head. He’s very handsome, and he seems friendly. The kind of guy who smiles with his whole face.