Page 23 of When Forever Falls Apart

He catches sight of Billie, and a warm smile breaks across his face as he strides toward us. With every step he takes into the light, his features become more precise, more defined.

Elliot is nothing like the teenage boy I once knew. The last time our paths crossed, I was a kid with braces, and he was graduating from high school. Back then, he vanished into the world of college, and I haven’t seen him since.

His tall, lean stature reminds me a lot of Aston. Unlike my brother, who always wears boring suits, Elliot is wearing a leather jacket, a white tee, and denim jeans. His hair is a tousled explosion of ash-blond curls, wild and untamed, undoubtedly a product of the helmet he just removed.

As he reaches our table, his bright-blue eyes lock onto mine—a gaze that fills me with curiosity. Only now do I realize he doesn’t look much like Eva, and it would be hard to pick them out as siblings.

“When did he get so hot?” I murmur, then quickly slam my lips shut.

Fuck, why did I say that out loud?My eyes dart back and forth from Elliot to Billie, but neither one of them reacts.

“So, is this the infamous Madelina Beaumont?”

I angle my head slightly, my lips pressing tightly together in a clear display of irritation. “Infamous? So, we’re going there.”

“Elliot has a dry sense of humor,” Billie interjects, trying to keep the peace. “Once you spend enough time with him, you’ll start finding him funny.”

“Well, since we’ll be working together, I can’t wait to find out if that’s true,” I answer sarcastically. Then I put two and two together.Is he the jerk who tried to run me off the road?“Hold on a minute. Were you driving up my ass earlier today?”

“So demure,” he says with a crooked smirk. “I wasn’t up your ass. Trust me, you’d know if I was.”

Billie drinks her margarita in one go.

As for me, I’ve only had two, and even though things are slightly hazy, I can still respond with a bite. “So, you’re an ass man? True colors have now been revealed.”

Elliot dips his head, a sly grin following. “I’d love to stay and join in the girl talk, but I have to meet someone. Thought I’d just pop in to say hello. I’ll see you tomorrow. Six in the morning, sharp. You may want to lay off the margaritas—you’ll thank me later.”

And with a twist in his smile, he turns to leave the bar. I betmeet someoneis code for hooking up with some town hussy.

Tomorrow will be the death of me, but I’m detemined to prove him wrong. There will be no need to thank him later.

I raise my hand to call the server back. “Miss, another round of margaritas, please?”

Billie laughs freely, throwing her head back only to come up for air moments later.

“To us single girls. Who needs a man, anyway?”

We raise our glasses with a clink, then the rest of the night becomes one giant blur.

CHAPTER 7Elliot

My eyes wander to the clock sitting on the wall, eagerly waiting for the numbers to change. A contented smile plays at my lips the moment the time ticks over to six.

Madelina is nowhere in sight, and after last night, that doesn’t surprise me at all.

Billie asked me to stop by the bar for a quick drink, but after accepting the invitation, Ronald asked if I could help him change the filter on his boat. Although I had no prior maintenance experience, I felt compelled to do it, given Ronald is like a hundred and two.

It meant ditching the girls’ meetup, which no doubt involved unnecessary conversations I would find unentertaining anyway.

My shoulders relax as tension eases with the kneading of the dough. I’ve grown fond of working autonomously, knowing the café will be busy later and quiet time will be a thing of the past.

The radio is airing the usual morning show, a mix of music and news. It’s a refreshing change from listening to French all day long. As a Post Malone song plays in the background, the door chimes, signaling someone entering the café.

“Before you even say a thing, it’s six o’clock and I’m only one minute late because the stupid key got stuck in Eva’s door and I couldn’t get it out.” Madelina suddenly appears in the kitchen, out of breath, wearing a white dress and sneakers. Obviously, she has no experience working in a kitchen. Despite wearing an apron, her dress will likely end up covered in stains by the end of the day. Knowing my luck, I’ll be forced to listen to her complain, and this will somehow end up my fault.

I press the dough down, then push it forward with the heels of my hands. “It sounds like a whole lot of excuses.”

“One excuse,” she corrects, grabbing the apron from the hook on the wall. “And a valid one at that. I’m not hungover.”