Page 25 of Fate, Interrupted

He reads it immediately. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. Only holds the space and waits, the way he waits for everything, with the complete unhurried patience of a man who has decided that what he wants is worth whatever it takes to get there right.

I look up at him.

I want him. That’s not the problem. I want to choose the night because I’m ready, not because he showed up late, kissed me senseless, and I forgot every plan I had for the evening.

“Not tonight,” I say.

Not an apology or a door closing. Just the truth of where I am—I want it to be the right night, and this one arrived sideways with an excuse I didn’t believe and a knock at eight-forty-seven and one foot of distance that closed before either of us planned it. That’s not the night I want this to be.

He nods once.

“Thursdays are busy at work,” he says.

“I doubt your Thursdays are any busier than any other day,” I say.

His eyes widen, a hint of mirth behind them. “Next time I’ll be on time.”

“Next time don’t make up a reason,” I say.

He holds my gaze. His mouth tightens briefly, and he gives me a small nod. Busted.

He holds my gaze. Honesty moves through his expression. Caught, and not trying to get uncaught.

“Next time I won’t,” he says.

I asked for a ceiling fan.

I know what I’m asking for now. I’ve known for a while now. I want Silas, but I want him on my terms, on a night I choose, without an excuse neither of us believes.

I turn off the last light and let him walk me to my car.

Chapter nine

Norah

Imeasure time in the days since Silas Coulter walked into my shop.

It’s been ten days, and I’ve been fine for all of them, including the three after the hardware store on Monday. What’s replaying in my head is the answer to my question.

I wanted to and that seemed like a reason to wait.

He said it with the calm certainty of a man announcing a weather forecast. I still don’t know what to do with that.

Fine. Completely fine. Moving on.

The trivia night flier says: TEAM: THE LAST CHAPTER—Trivia Night, Hannigan’s Bar, Sunday 8pm. Join us. Bring your brain. Leave your ego at the door.

I drew a small stack of books in the corner because I believe in visual communication and relish a fine-tip marker when I have time on my hands on slow afternoons.

The flier has been on the bulletin board behind the register for two weeks. Approximately half the customers who’ve seen it have said some version of oh, trivia, fun and done nothing about it. The other half ignored it entirely. Exactly zero of them have stepped up to form a team with me and my staff. I’m choosing not to take it personally.

It’s a good flier.

Jewell doesn’t think the flier is the point when I knock on her door at seven fifteen on Sunday night. But Jewell is wrong about that and several other things, and I tell her so while she locates her jacket, her keys, and the energy required to leave the house on a Sunday evening.

“I was writing,” she says, from somewhere in the back of her house.

“You’re always writing.”