"That's not gonna work."
"It has to work."
"Why?"
Because I don't know how to do this. Because everyone leaves eventually. Because the last time I let someone in, she tried to destroy everything I built.
Jason watches me for a long moment and sighs. "Sarah's gonna love this story."
"Don't you dare."
"Too late. I'm already texting her." He holds up his phone, grinning. "I bet she'll say you're an idiot, but she'll be rooting for you."
"Your wife has terrible taste."
"She married me, didn't she? Look, man. I don't actually need the details, and I'm not gonna push. But Marianne crossed a line. A big one. And if Tate knows about it and didn't run screaming, she's a keeper."
"Or it means she feels sorry for me."
"Have you met Tate?" Jason shakes his head. "That woman doesn't do pity. She does spite. I mean, she did frame that form."
He's not wrong.
My gaze snags at Tate's window and sees men carrying the display case from the back room. The industrial coffee machine comes next, and yeah, it's bigger than mine. Shinier. More expensive. State-of-the-art espresso maker.
Tate walks out to meet the delivery guys. She's changed clothes—jeans, Vans slip-ons, hair with a bright pink headband that's so aggressively cheerful it makes my teeth hurt.
I run my tongue along my bottom lip again. Fuck, she tasted good, and I want more. I want her juices coating my mouth, her whimpers and moans bouncing around my skull.
"If you stare any longer at her, she'll melt into the ground."
"Don't you have better things to do?"
"Not really. I enjoy watching you watch her."
I flip him off, and he laughs.
The rest of the morning passes in a haze. I serve the early lunch crowd, restock the bar, and pretend I'm not watching every single thing happening next door. More boxes arrive. Books, I realize. Hundreds of books in neat cardboard boxes that the workers carry inside with careful hands.
Tate changes her headband. Pink to yellow. Still aggressively cheerful. Still hurts to look at.
At 2 PM, Tate comes outside with coffee for the workers. At 3 PM, she's on a ladder arranging something I can't see. At 4 PM, she sits on her front stoop with her laptop, hair falling out of the headband, biting her lower lip while she types.
I'm going insane. That's the only explanation. There's absolutely no way this is normal. I'm embarrassing myself, and for what?
"You could just go over there," Jason says at around 5:30.
"No."
"Talk to her."
"No."
"Apologize for being an asshole."
"I wasn't—" I stop. "Okay, maybe I was."
"Definitely were." Jason grins. "But I think she likes it."