By the time the lunch rush hits its stride, I’m running on pure momentum and spite.
Thenhewalks in.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Familiar stride. Same stupid confidence, same infuriating energy that rolls off him like he owns every room he steps into.
My chest tightens.
Oh. You havegotto be kidding me.
I don’t even think. I don’t give myself time to second-guess or soften it or swallow the words like I usually do. The frustration from this morning – the waiting, the embarrassment, the way I told myself it didn’t matter – boils straight over.
I march across the floor before my brain can catch up.
“So this is what you do?” I snap, stopping directly in front of him. “You make plans and then just…what? Pretend they never happened?”
His brows lift slowly, like he’s genuinely surprised to find me standing there.
“Excuse me?” he says.
“Oh don’t do that,” I fire back, arms crossing over my chest. “Don’t stand there acting confused. You didn’t even bother to show up. I waited over an hour.”
A couple of nearby diners glance over. I don’t care.
“I rearranged my morning,” I continue, heat rising into my cheeks now that I’ve started. “I sat there like an idiot wondering if you were hurt or just couldn’t be bothered. And now you walk in here like nothing happened? I thought something had happened to you.”
Silence stretches between us.
He doesn’t look apologetic.
If anything, he looks…amused.
“Are you even listening to me?” I demand.
That’s when the corner of his mouth twitches.
Not an apology. Not guilt. A smirk.
My stomach drops.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice low and smooth in a way that makes my skin prickle for all the wrong reasons, and sounding anythingbut. “But if you’re looking for someone to take out all that pent-up frustration on, I’d be more than happy to help.”
The words hit like a slap.
Shock floods through me first. Then humiliation. Then a sharp, furious clarity.
Right. That tells meeverythingI need to know.
My jaw tightens. I take a step back, straightening, refusing to let him see how much that stung.
“Unbelievable,” I say coldly. “Do yourself a favour and don’t flatter yourself. You’re not nearly charming enough to pull that off.”
His eyes flicker – something unreadable passing through them – but I don’t wait to see more.
I turn on my heel and walk away, pulse hammering, spine rigid, pride bruised but intact. My hands shake as I grab a tray, but I lift my chin and get back to work like I didn’t just explode in the middle of the restaurant.
Behind me, I can feel his gaze lingering.
Good.