“You.” She cocks her head, brows twisting into a small frown. I pull out the chair across from her and, when I hear no arguments, I sit down.
“Why are you here?” she asks.
“This is my post-workout spot. I’m a regular.”
“So am I,” she counters, tipping her head pointedly at the food in front of her.
I lean back, resting my hands atop the table. The silence between us is heavy, but I refuse to move. If she wants me gone, she needs to say the words.
She glances around, possibly checking for other empty tables before settling her gaze on me. There they are again, those clear eyes that don’t hide much. I can read the accusation in them.
“Spit it out.”
“What should I call you today? Mr. Novak, Mr. Finnigan, Spuddy? Or is there something new?”
My mouth curls upward. I appreciate that she isn’t wasting my time by playing dumb.
“Cal is fine. Callum if you’re pissed.”
A ghost of a smile flickers across her lips, gone in an instant. I want to see it again.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you really were? You knew I mistook you for someone else and you took advantage of that.”
I shrug. “I liked the anonymity. You can imagine I don’t get much of it. I would’ve fessed up if you’d stayed that night.”
“You made me feel foolish.” Her honest admission is as unexpected as it is refreshing. The only people who call me out on my shit are family or the guys. That Alia did it so gently only makes the guilt sink in deeper.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention. Promise.”
She nods, no longer angry but not entirely friendly either. This girl is keeping me guessing and—fuck me—I kinda like it.
“Can I buy you an apology coffee?” I hope she agrees. I want more time with her. To figure her out—to find some closure to this curiosity perhaps.
“No, thank you.” Disappointment sweeps through me ’til her eyes lock with mine. “But a mango smoothie might do the trick.”
The huff of laughter that escapes me is laced with relief. By the time I return with a smoothie in each hand, I’m no longer unsure about sitting at her table. While I dig into my food, Alia alternatesbetween her book, staring out the window, and picking pumpkin seeds out of her salad before taking a bite.
“You’re a lot quieter than you were the night we met. Do I need to get alcohol in your system to hear your voice again?”
That finally gets her shoulders to relax, a small smile gracing her face. There’s something about this girl I can’t pinpoint. She’d been a little shy at Block on Wood, but both times I’ve seen her since, she’s almost. . . reclusive.
I want to talk to the woman who made funny potato jokes. Who flushed pink when I flirted with her. Where did she go?
“So, you’re from India?” I prod.
“Mm-hmm.”
“I had a tough time figuring out your accent the night we met. It only comes out occasionally.”
She spears her lettuce with the edge of her fork, waving it. “Could’ve asked me.”
“Didn’t want to be rude.”
She nods, silent again. Good thing I’m tenacious.
“So, tell me. Did you always speak in a mixed accent, or was this a choice?”
“I’ve lived here for a couple years. Guess I got good at faking my accent to try and fit in.” She sniffs, muttering under her breath. “Wasn’t the only thing I got good at faking.”