Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 362(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“I think it’s fate,” says the grizzled old man in fishing gear. “The way Ava and Connor keep finding their way back to each other.”
A silver-haired woman holding a designer handbag and wearing three strands of pearls around her neck nods thoughtfully.
“That’s very romantic of you, Harold.” Shanti plates up a pastry. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
But the next person in line groans loudly. “Please. She’s always leaving. I don’t know why he keeps taking her back.”
“She’s a successful modern woman,” answers Harold with his head held high. “It’s not her fault her work takes her places.”
Another person in athleisure adds a quarter to the jar. “My money goes to new girl.”
It’s not much, but I’ll take it. With silent thanks.
“You’re both just still pissed Ava got prom queen.” A man with a toddler on his hip stuffs a dollar bill into the other jar. Dammit.
“Way to swear in front of the baby, Wade,” says Shanti.
“She was also captain of the girls’ baseball team, lead in the school musical, and Miss Port Stewart.” Harold counts off each accomplishment on his fingers. “This new girl, whoever she is, would have to be pretty special to compare.”
And the bitch of it is, the bulk of them agree.
But my hero, athleisure woman, shakes her head vehemently. “All of those things happened over fifteen years ago.”
“It’s not as if she’s been slacking since,” says Harold.
No one argues the point. Shit. Small wonder the contents of my jar are so meager. I’m up against an overachieving beauty queen. I came second in a talent show once. My performance of “The Cup Song” was solid. But that was my peak, school achievements-wise. That and being accused of plagiarism by a teacher because the story I wrote for class was too good.
This is all unsettling. Maybe I should tell them the truth. How Ava texted me and jumped to the wrong conclusion. Though it would be my word against the hometown heroine. What’s the likelihood I would be believed?
Two tourists enter the coffee shop. One holds a camera while the other studies a brochure. There are lots of hotels and inns along the waterfront. Port Stewart is a popular place. There’re plenty of restaurants, art and culture, history, and scenery to recommend it. And it’s only two hours from Seattle.
“We’re looking for the farmers market?” asks the man.
“The corner of Hemlock and Lawrence,” answers Shanti. “But it’s only on Saturdays.”
The now sad-faced tourists shuffle back out.
Shanti picks up a cookie with a napkin and places it into a paper bag. “Where is…there you are. Your order’s ready. I never did get your name.”
I rush over and reach for my coffee and cookie. Only sugar and caffeine can save this day. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re very welcome.”
It’s not far to the door. Fifteen feet or so at most. Good thing I wore flats. While I don’t exactly run, I don’t exactly walk either. My cold brew sloshes about inside the paper cup.
Time for a new plan. I shall weather the storm by valiantly hiding out in my apartment until this shit blows over. It’s not like I have any problems hunkering down and introverting. Ava will return and be reunited with Connor and talk will turn to something else. Something that doesn’t involve me. Then I will forget about this shit, relaunch my seaside life, and all will be splendid.
Before I can reach it, however, the coffee shop door swings open and in walks the building superintendent. The same person who gave me the keys to my new apartment. Her face lights up at the sight of me and she loudly proclaims, “Hey there, Riley!”
CHAPTER TWO
The woman sure has a healthy set of lungs. Every head in the coffee shop turns my way. Some wear hostile stares while others are more curious-slash-embarrassed. My will to live sinks straight through the floor.
Fuck.
The superintendent is puzzled. But then she spies the dueling tip jars and says, “Oh, dear.” Which has to be the understatement of the year.
Shanti snatches the cards off the jars and drops them in the trash. “Should have done that when I arrived.”
“It was supposed to be funny,” mumbles the barista.
“Does she look amused to you?”
The young barista gives me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, ma’am.”
“I, um…” is all I have to say. My mouth is as dry as a very dry thing and my brain is also not working. And they’re all still standing there staring at me.
“Connor and I…this is all just…” My cell starts buzzing in my purse and, yes, here is my escape. “Excuse me.”
Through the door and out onto the sidewalk. Out in the open air where I can finally breathe. The number of eyes still burning holes into my back is huge. But I balance the cup and cookie in one hand and retrieve my cell with the other. All while putting more much-needed distance between me and that place. Hooray for multitasking.