Page 23 of Once Upon a Lie

I mentally reach for the emergency brake, but it’s too late.

“Hi,” he adds out of necessity since I can’t seem to do anything but stand there like a statue.

Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.

“Uh . . . hi there,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like I’ve somehow turned into a teenage barista in a rom-com. Heart burning my throat, eyes dancing with stars—I’m one spilled drink away from every cliché in the book. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee,” he says. “Black. And whatever bagel you’d recommend.”

“Depends,” I say, already reaching for a to-go cup. “You a savory or sweet guy?”

His mouth quirks. God, his mouth is a bit too perfect for my liking. Full, warm, and irritatingly distracting. Not only is he attractive, but he’s also one of those charming, flirty types. I can tell by the innuendo-filled twinkle in his eye.

“Sweet. Definitely,” he says. “But that’s a life thing, not a bagel thing. I’ll have to defer to your expertise on that.”

Not today, bucko. I refuse to be pulled into your web of handsome.

I clear my throat and plaster on my best customer-service smile. “You look like an Asiago bagel type.”

That earns a quiet laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Name for the order?”

“Valentina.”

I furrow my brow. “Your name is Valentina?”

“No.” He laughs lightly. “Your name.” He nods toward my chest—or technically, my name tag.

I just stare at him, officially confused on why he’s giving me my name when I asked for his.

“You’re Valentina from Magnolia Condos,” he says, and I pause mid-type on the register, well past provoked and officially frightened.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m Shane.” His grin is unfairly attractive, but most serial killers’ are. “Your new neighbor in 1807. Threw the party Saturday night.”

“Oh.” I blink, a swell of relief washing over me. “Right. The new guy who had everyone all in a tizzy in the chat.” I laugh and finish typing his order into the register.

“Shame you didn’t make it.”

“Yeah. Busy,” I lie. I spent Saturday night at Alfred’s watching reruns of Diane Keaton movies. Hardly unbreakable plans. “It’s for the best, though, since your party ended in an HOA lecture. I like to keep my slate clean from Rita’s violation tickets.”

“Oh, it got better.” He leans an elbow on the counter, lowering his voice like he’s about to confess a felony. “I also got an official violation ticket in my mailbox yesterday . . . for unauthorized doorstop usage.”

I blink. “I’m sorry . . . what? Doorstop usage?”

He nods gravely. “Evidently, you can’t prop your door open with your boot while moving boxes. Rita apparently saw it on the security cameras.”

A laugh bursts out of me. “I’d say you’ll get used to her, but honestly, you won’t. Not unless you’re used to living in a prison. And a guy like you?” I size him up and down, smiling more than I mean to. “You’re probably always going to feel like you’re one HOA violation from being kicked out of the building.”

“Fingers crossed I can stay under her radar.” He grins, and I swear, his eyes are so warm they look like melted chocolate, and the same satisfaction that I usually get from eating a piece settles low in my stomach.

Before I can say more, Cher appears behind me with a panicked look. “Teeny, we’re out of oat milk!”

“Grab the backup from the walk-in.”

“There’s no backup!” She tosses her hands out in a frenzy. “All we have is whole, nonfat, and almond!”