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Chapter 7
Shane
“Put me down!”
“Fine.” I growl the word but gently set Willow beside an outdoor table.
Her coworker races through the glass double doors, carrying an oversized purse. “Thought you’d need this.”
“Thank you.” Willow takes the bag and then smacks me in the chest with it. “What were you thinking, dragging me out of there like that?”
My jaw clenches, but her coworker speaks before I can answer.
“I quit too. Let’s see how Gus does holding the shop on his own. I’m also going to tell my sorority sister, who’s majoring in journalism, about this place. Maybe she can write an exposé.” She unlaces her apron, tossing it on the metal table. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Willow sighs, taking off her Deja Brew hat and apron and flicking them on top of the pile.
Her coworker glances between us, hesitating a beat.
“Good luck with whatever this is,” she says before unlocking a car and sliding into the driver’s seat.
Willow rubs the bridge of her nose for several seconds before she veers left, continuing down the complex’s covered walkway. I find myself following a few steps behind—just to make sure she gets to her car safely. Willow walks through the parking lot and continues toward a small neighborhood park before glancing over her shoulder.
“Oh, good. At least that’s cleared up.”
“What’s cleared up?”
She looks exhausted as she says, “You’re a stalker.”
I jog to catch up. “I’m not a stalker.”
“Really?” She digs in her bag for a pair of orange jewel-shaped sunglasses. “Because you keep showing up where I work and manhandling me whenever you feel like it. You were probably tracking me at the bar too, just waiting to strike.”
“You sat down next to me.”
Willow makes a dismissive noise in her throat, stepping onto the walking path.
“And I walked out of the ER, expecting to never see you again. In fact, I reiterated that two nights ago when you were in my condo.” I’m never this defensive, or talkative in general, but something about Willow gets under my skin. “So maybe you’re the stalker.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
She stops in the middle of the path, almost getting sideswiped by an oncoming runner. I place a hand at the small of her back, tugging her closer so she doesn’t get hit. The action causes her to stumble, her fingers fanning my chest to brace her impact.
When her palm settles over my heart, the air hisses out of my lungs.
“Sorry,” she whispers, nervously tugging on her bangs before her eyes narrow. “Wait, no. I’m not sorry.”
Willow steps back, and my reluctance to let her go is as strange as this conversation. I shove my hands into my pockets, mentally telling myself to get a grip.
“I’m mad at you.” Then she turns her perfect little nose in the air and stomps off.
I should watch her leave. I should let Willow march out of my life. Instead, I follow her like the stalker I apparently am.
“I understand,” I tell her once I’ve fallen back in step. “In the end, I cost you a job. I’ll cover your severance fee while you search for another one. Would five thousand be enough?”
When Willow trips again, I steady her elbow with my palm.
“How much do you think baristas make?”
