Nothing More (Landon Gibson 1) - Chapter 98

Her eyes are hard. She’s a fighter. I can see it in her eyes.

Her bag is heavy and I set it down on the living room floor next to my grandma’s table. I lay the box down and wave for Nora to come inside. She steps in slowly and Tessa sits up on the couch.

I look at her phone on the table.

Shit.

I look at Nora apologetically. “I have to go to work. I’m really late.”

She nods and smiles at me, but it’s the smallest smile I’ve ever seen.

The self-promises I made to protect her last night surge back up in my chest. I never want her to look this way, to feel this way.

Tessa stands up and assesses the situation. I can’t stay around for the explanation, even though it’s going to drive me crazy to not know what’s going on.

What happened?

Why is Nora here with her belongings?

Was it something with Dakota?

My stomach twists at the possibility.

When I leave, will she tell Tessa that we kissed, again?

I wish I could stay, but I can’t. Too many people are counting on me, and I’ve already messed up big-time this morning.

I rush down the hallway and take the stairs. I don’t have time to wait for the world’s smallest elevator to get to my floor.

Chapter Twenty-nine

WHEN I PUSH THROUGH THE doors at Grind, the place is packed.

Oh no.

A long line is snaked around the shop, from the pastry display case to the pickup area. Women and men dressed in casual business clothing are scattered around the room, chattering and sipping on caffeine. As I scan the line, I notice a few irritated faces toward the back. I immediately walk through the crowd and go behind the counter. I don’t even bother to grab an apron. Aiden is taking orders, his fingers quickly navigating the familiar register and his usually pale face bright red. His neck, too. Sweat has soaked through the back of his shirt.

Well, shit.He’s not going to be very happy with me.

As I step up behind him, he hands a black-haired woman in a red pantsuit her change. For her part, the woman is clearly irritated, her hands moving around angrily in the space between them, trying to communicate her frustration, I guess.

“Hey, I’m here. Sorry, man. My phone died and my alarm—”

“Save it.” Aiden glares at me. “Just help me get this line down,” he says quietly.

I wish I could call on Hermione to turn him into a ferret.

Still, I nod, sort of understanding his frustration. This line is no joke and sometimes people are just crappy.

Draco—I mean, Aiden—shouts an order at me. “Macchiato. Extra foam!”

I grab a small cup and get to work. As I steam the milk, I look back at Aiden. He’s filthy: black coffee grounds stain the front of his shirt, and he has a wet spot on his chest. It would be much more amusing if it wasn’t my fault. If I’d arrived on time, we still would have been busy and overwhelmed, but it would have been much easier to handle with two people.

As I pour the frothed milk over the dark espresso, Aiden gives me another order. We continue like this until the line shrinks down to three people. Aiden is calmer now, back to smiling and being friendly with customers. This is good news for me.

It’s helping keep my mind off of Nora showing up at my apartment, and the fact that I’m an idiot for not bringing my phone to text Tessa to make sure everything’s all right. I could have found power for it somewhere.

Every table is still full and there are at least twenty people standing up, coffee in hand. I notice that they’re all wearing lanyards and assume that it’s the usual electronics conference that happens every couple months nearby. It’s a much bigger crowd than we usually get at one time, but it’s good for business. That’s another cool thing about New York City; there’s always something going on.

I start to refill the canisters of beans and wipe down the grinders while Aiden tackles the condiment station, refilling the creamers and restocking the seven different types of sugar we offer. Before I moved to the city, I’d never seen a lump of sugar pressed into the shape of a cube, like on Bugs Bunny. I honestly thought that was just cartoon shorthand.

Back in Saginaw, every once in a while, I would hear a customer ordering a nonfat something or other, but that was about as complicated as it got in small-town Michigan. Dakota and I would sit in the local coffeehouse for hours. We would switch tables when we got tired of the view. We’d get a sugar high and walk home, holding hands and dreaming under the stars.

My mind moves down that familiar memory lane and I remember when Dakota and I got into a fight in Starbucks. I remember that her hair smelled like coconut and her new lip gloss was sticky. I chased her down the street and she sprinted, reminding me that she could run faster than anyone I knew. The track coach at our high school knew it, too—not that Dakota was interested in sports. She would humor me and watch the meets with me and ask a million questions every time a whistle blew.

She wanted to dance. She always knew it. I envied her that certainty. Dakota ran and ran farthe