Page 103 of The Overtime Persuasive

EVA

At 12:07, I send Mrs. Green the photographs of the used café equipment. After that, time crawls.

For the next eight minutes, I alternate between checking my phone and peering out at the street, circling the store so often I’m in danger of wearing a track into the hardwood. By 12:15, every minute feels like five, and I’m ready to crawl out of my own skin.

“He’s not late yet,” Lucy, who has clocked in as temporary help for the day, announces.

“I didn’t say anything,” I sing back to her.

“You’ve looked outside six times.” She gives me the kind of look only a sister can give the woman waiting for her brother. It manages to be skeptical, sympathetic, and faintly threatening on my behalf.

I ignore her.

“Look at these.” I carry my phone to the register and hold it out to her.

Lucy swipes through the photographs. “Are you putting the café on a dating app?”

“I’m trying to show off its best features.”

“The espresso machine looks quite sparkly and new.”

“Unlike its owner.”

That earns me a grin.

She returns to the first photograph. “You’re really thinking about selling everything?”

“Mrs. Green has a nephew in Baltimore who wants to open a café near the ballpark.” I shrug. “It wasn’t even on my radar, because I was thinking I’d reopen that side. But, she offered to send him the pictures.”

“And if he wants it?”

“I sell it.”

The answer comes more easily than I expected.

Lucy looks toward the café. “So no to reopening?”

“I’d still need to renew the permit, arrange another inspection, restock everything, and probably hire someone. That’s a lot of money to spend bringing back something I’m not certain I want anymore.”

“You used to be certain.”

“I used to be certain about a lot of things.”

Like doing everything myself. Like the wisdom of avoiding hockey players with broad shoulders and persistent tendencies.

My gaze drifts toward the front windows again. Still no Liam.

I check the time: 12:16.

Fine. One minute does not constitute abandonment. One minute barely qualifies as lateness. He could be parking. He could be at the light. He could be walking toward the door right now, carrying coffee and some completely reasonable explanation for why he hasn’t answered the message I sent at 11:58.

READY WHEN YOU ARE

Delivered, but unread. Yes, I wrote that out in all caps. I want him to get the hint.

I slip the phone face down on the counter and my eyes move to the door instead.

A shadow crosses the front window, and my breath catches before a woman with a stroller continues past. Two minutes later, footsteps slow outside, and every muscle in my body tightens in anticipation…but the door doesn’t open.