Page 24 of Business Casual
“Try to sell the chocolate hazelnut cupcakes,” she cuts me off. “There’s another batch in the oven for later.”
“Got it, boss.”
Except when I elbow my way through the door, I don’t think I’ll be selling any cupcakes.
Because Nova Porter is standing on the other side of the counter, one elbow propped up on the display case. Deep red corduroy skirt. Black tights and Converse. A well-loved leather jacket over a faded Ramones T-shirt. She takes one look at me and her whole face turns into a thundercloud.
I smile in the face of her dismay, then slip her phone from my back pocket. “Looking for this?”
6
NOVA
I turn aroundand walk out.
I don’t need my phone. There’s a hookup for a landline at the new studio. I’ll get a rotary phone and call it a day. Who needs email access in the palm of their hand? Not me.
Charlie is still here. In Inglewild. Why is Charlie still here? He’s supposed to be back in New York, doing whatever it is he does in those fancy suits. And my phone was supposed to be left on the counter next to the register.
Not in his right hand as he fumbles his way out the front door behind me, the bell almost ripping from the little red string Layla keeps it on. I ignore him, storming through the trees that surround the bakehouse.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll trip over a root. Land on his face like the big dumb idiot he is.
“Nova, wait a second. Would you just—” He reaches for my arm, but I shrug him off, still walking. I do not want to have this conversation with him. I don’t want to have any conversation with him. I asked him to come home with me, he said no, and I’d like to ignore him for the rest of my life. I hear him sigh and match my pace, trailing three feet behind. “This isn’t pretending like it didn’t happen, you know.”
I stop abruptly. He almost crashes into me, pulling himself to a stop at the last possible second. He’s wearing a flannel today. Somethingthat looks buttery soft and warm, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A mix of pale blue and cobalt that matches his eyes. Damn it. I don’t want to be noticing his eyes.
“Give me my phone, please.”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “No.”
“No?”
“Mm-hmm. My answer is no.”
I resist the urge to stomp my foot. Charlie reduces me to the most reactionary version of myself. “Why is your answer no?”
“Because I want to talk to you, and if I give you your phone, you’re going to run off through the trees. Again.”
He’s right. But he’s also wrong. Because I don’t need my phone to run away. I spin on my heel, prepared to do just that, when he curls his fingers around my elbow, gentle this time.
“Nova,” he says, exasperated. “Wait a second.”
I keep my eyes on our shoes. “I already told you, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Two days of clarity didn’t change that for me. It’s only made the burn of embarrassment worse. My cheeks flame with heat the longer I think about it, the band around my lungs pulled tight. I want to forget it ever happened, and I can’t do that if Charlie keeps bringing it up.
“We need to talk about it,” he insists.
Resigned, I tip my head back and meet his eyes. He looks serious, if not confused, dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He lifts his hand and taps his thumb to the edge of my frown.
“What’s this face for?”
I push his hand away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I say again.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want—” I huff out a breath. “I don’t want to be a joke.”
