I watch as the older woman—her employee, I assume—arrives a few minutes later. They greet each other like they’ve done it a thousand times.
Easy. Familiar.
Coffee appears.
A paper bag from the bakery down the street.
Cookies, maybe.
Yeah, she’s the kind of girl who might eat cookies for breakfast—and I love that about her. My mouth waters, and damn it, I want one now, too.
I want to share breakfast with her. Want to steal a bite right from her mouth.
Hilary laughs at something the woman says—head tipped back slightly, curls bouncing, that bright, unguarded smile lighting up her whole face.
My chest tightens.
There she is. My girl.
The thought slips in before I can stop it. And it hits just as hard as everything else.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I mutter.
She’s not mine.
She’s not anything to me.
And yet I can’t look away.
Because there’s something about her I can’t shake.
Something real. Something steady.
Something that makes everything else feel too loud. Too fake. And it makes me greedy for more of her. Makes me want things I have no business wanting.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to lean back.
This isn’t why I came here.
I came here to figure my shit out.
To decide what I’m doing with my career.
With my life.
Instead, I’m playing house in a town that isn’t mine, avoiding calls, ignoring emails, pretending I don’t have a deadline staring me down.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
My manager and producer.
Again.
Deadline’s tomorrow.
I need to make a decision.
I reach for the ignition.