“Nice?” he repeats, brows lifting. “Lola, we have chemistry. You’re just scared because this feels real.”
No. This feels like being maneuvered. Like every time I try to step away, he steps in front of the exit.
My hands tighten around my cup, suddenly aware of how small I feel sitting across from him. I’m being talked down to without it ever sounding that way. Like he’s already decided what’s best for me.
And I hate how familiar this feels.
He watches me quietly, waiting. “So,” he says lightly, as if the conversation is settled. “Dinner tonight?”
And the worst part? For a second, I almost say yes.
Because saying no suddenly feels like starting a fight I’m not sure I can win. Yes is the easy option. But I came here to change that script. I came to New Falls to give the real Lola a shot.
I stare down into my coffee, trying to work out how this conversation slipped out of my control.
Again.
Every time I try to end this cleanly, Reese redirects. Smooths things over. Makes it sound like I’m confused, impulsive, or just inexperienced. Like he knows better. As if my no simply means convince me harder.
My shoulders curl inward without me noticing, chest tightening in a way that feels horribly familiar. Just like home. I refuse to feel small again.
I lift my head and paste on a polite smile. “Actually,” I say, pushing my chair back slightly, “I'm going to take a rain check.”
Reese pauses, fingers halfway to his coffee cup. “I’ve got a bit of a hangover,” I add with a small laugh. “And I already have plans with Violet tonight.”
His eyes sharpen, just slightly. Most people wouldn’t notice.
But now I do.
The flicker of annoyance. The loss of control. Men like him hate that. “Cancel,” he says simply. “We’ll go to dinner instead.”
Something inside me snaps back into place. I stand before he can continue. “No,” I say, grabbing my bag. “I really need to go.”
His mouth opens, probably ready to steer the conversation again, but I don’t give him the chance. “Thanks for the coffee, Reese.” And I walk away.
My heart pounds as I push through the café doors, and as the air hits my lungs, relief washes over me.
Freedom.
The bell jingles behind me, and Violet jogs out seconds later, sunglasses on, coffee in hand. “Well?” she asks. “You looked like you were negotiating a hostage situation in there.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Because I was.”
We walk quickly toward my car, and the second we’re both inside, doors closed, I drop my head back against the seat.
“He’s a problem,” I mutter.
Violet frowns. “Really?”
“Yes.”
I start the engine, hands tightening around the steering wheel. “He doesn’t listen. Every time I tried to say we should just stay friends, he talked over me, twisted it, made it sound like I was confused.”
Violet’s expression darkens. “That’s not good. What a dick.”
“It felt like being back with my parents,” I admit quietly. “Like he was cornering me into agreeing with him.”
Silence fills the car for a second as she processes that. Then, softly, “So what do we do?”