Page 114 of The Exit Strategy

That is not, in the grand scheme of things, too much to ask.

But then it buzzes again.

And again.

And. A-fucking-gain.

I exhale through my nose, then flip the powder keg over.

The lock screen shows a preview from a number I recognize. I don’t open it. I don’t have to. Natalie doesn’t call unless she wants something specific, and she doesn’t text unless she wants it now.

Below that is a missed call from the same number.

Below that, the follow-up text I don’t intend to read, but the preview flashes again.

Don’t ignore me, Cole.

I flip the phone back over hard enough that I’d welcome a cracked screen. I should’ve gotten a new number years ago.

Nothing has changed.

That’s the part I can never get used to about Natalie—that she can reach into the middle of any moment that’s just beginning to feel real and press her thumb to it while nothing ever outwardly betrays what she’s done.

My morning is the same as it was five minutes ago. The same kitchen. The same coffee. The same woman upstairs.

The only person who feels the pinch is me.

I take a sip of my coffee, the bitter taste anchoring me to my plight.

Everything is coming to a head, and I haven’t told anyone. This has been my pattern for six years. One I’ll have to break, and I’m going to break it before Natalie does it for me, but none of that can happen in the next ten minutes, and I’m not going to figure out my shit standing in my kitchen in goddamn sweatpants.

With a scowl, I pick the phone back up, delete the offending messages without opening them, and then toss itface down into the junk drawer with all the other shit I’m not ready to deal with yet.

My fists clench at my sides. The fear of not accomplishing the only goal that matters makes my teeth ache with the effort of holding all this shit inside.

“Cole?”

Mine.

Junie stands in the doorway in my clothes. Not the shirt I laid out for her, but the one I wore last night, and an irrational amount of pride pushes every other thought out of my head.

Her hair is a civil war on top of her head. There’s a crease running from the corner of her mouth all the way to her temple that she’s going to be furious about when she looks in the mirror, and my T-shirt is bunched in one fist that’s propped on her hip.

She is, by any measurable standard, a disaster—and the best thing I’ve ever seen. I have a sudden, concrete understanding of why men start wars for the women they love.

“Morning.” The word leaves my lips like a desire tasting its target for the first time.

Junie squints at me, then at the two mugs, before refocusing her suspicious glare my way.

Fucking. Perfect.

She’s perfect in her grumpy, jump-to-conclusions, spite-fueled manic energy.

And she’s mine.

Almost.

“Did you make coffee?” No one growls like Juniper Mercer on too little sleep.