Page 46 of Flint’s Strike

Twenty-five. Twenty-six.

The skin along the left side of my ribs pulls tight. My triceps are shaking. My core gives out. Everything gives out.

I collapse, cheek scraping against the exercise mat. The faint, rubbery scent has defied years of sweat and disinfectant.

My phone vibrates on the dresser. I can’t look at it. I don’t want to know if we’re over before we even begin. Not yet.

I make it through a shower, a bowl of leftover pasta salad, and three rows of the blanket before I can’t stand it anymore. Setting the knitting aside, I trudge into the bedroom and reach for the phone. My muscles are shaking as much from fear as the workout.

Officially moved girls’ night to Friday this week. I’m all yours tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, she sent another message.

I hope the yarn didn’t permanently blind you.

The last gray bubble cuts me open.

Turning in. I can pick up coffee in the morning if you’re coming to the station. I owe you that much. Let me know.

I sink down onto the mattress, the phone cradled in my hands, and stare at the tiny notification at the bottom of the screen.

Parker Elmore has silenced notifications.

I didn’t respond for three hours. I let her think I didn’t want this.

You’re a goddamn idjit. And a coward.

I type and erase half a dozen different messages before I settle on a response.

I’ll be at the station first thing, with donuts and a dinner reservation.

The little whoosh sends my heart rate into the stratosphere. But one more day with Parker in my life—even if that day ends in disaster—is better than the alternative. I won’t let her think I don’t want her. Not again.

Chapter Seventeen

Parker

By ten after five, I give up waiting for the alarm to go off. It’s almost light out. Getting up feels…acceptable.

Unlike the dozen other times I checked the clock overnight.

The stitches are wrapped well enough, they don’t pull when I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The dull ache in my thigh is manageable. The pit in my stomach? Not so much. Especially if I have to face Eliot this morning.

Three texts. Zero response.

I get through my shower before I’m tempted to check my phone. But I always wait until I make coffee to pick it up in the morning. If I grab it now, I’ll be admitting defeat. I got up twice in the middle of the night and made it all the way out to the kitchen before turning around and going back to bed.

What the hell is wrong with me? Pining after a guy I’ve only known for a few days? Letting his silence affect my entire night and morning?

If Grace, Emi, or Isabel were spiraling over a man before the very first date, I’d tell them to stop borrowing trouble. Yet here I am, making a big fat withdrawal.

Hair wrapped in a towel, I stand in front of my closet for a full ten minutes, debating the merits of a red bolero tie or a hunter green silk number that tucks into my shirt above my first button.

For a Wednesday. At the office. When I’m on desk duty.

Putting that debate aside for the moment, I decide to be even more ridiculous by french braiding my hair.

In my defense, I can’t go for a run. Not until the stitches come out. What else am I going to do with my morning? Obsess over the unread text messages?