“Oh, uh…Leslie, one sec.” Panic streaks through me as I jab the mute button and jolt off my chair to talk to Linc. “Hey, what’s up?”
Who knows? Maybe he didn’t hear everything. Maybe he only needs my input on Vincent’s interior designs.
“No, I was just going to go grab lunch for my guys,” he says, his voice a little more strained than usual. “Thought I’d ask if you wanted any tacos—”
“Tacos?” I perk up.
His smile’s tight, like he’s trying to maintain his usual easygoing demeanor, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. His steely-gray eyes linger on me, like he’s holding something back.
My chest tightens.
Why did he have toshow up right now?
“Uh, yeah. Nothing too fancy.” He shrugs. “There’s this food truck a few blocks from here that sells them, street-style. The guys love it. But I didn’t want to interrupt you if you’re, um, busy.”
Again, Linc’s gaze darts past me to my laptop, where Leslie’s still waiting for me to come back to the screen, and I know.
Linc’s heard everything.
And he’ll keep hearing it, too. He’s followingThe Divorcétante Chronicles. He’s going to know all about my dates—the good, the bad, the ugly, and possibly the ones that end withgood morning.
I force a smile, resting my hand lightly on his forearm. “Say less, sir. My answer will always be yes to tacos.” I laugh, but it’s a hollow sound, trying to ease the discomfort radiating off him.
I hate how wrong this feels. How wrongIfeel.Saysomething.
“Well then, ma’am…” He grins, slipping his phone from his back pocket and unlocking it to a note cutely entitledLunch Orders. “May I take your order?”
I glance at the screen, where there’s a running list with all the crew members’ names.
“Do they have a shredded chicken one?” I ask, biting back a laugh at how cutely he’s taking notes.
As he continues, adding my cilantro, lime, and feta cheese, then teasing when I ask for a side of tomatillo sauce, not “green sauce,” I’m completely fixated on his face. His piercing gray eyes. Smooth, intricate shadows and lines drenched in rich, dark brown skin. The light dusting of salt-and-pepper beard scruff, catching the light spilling in from the windows. Full, soft-looking pink lips.
My heart rams my ribs.
His smile snaps me out of my thoughts, and I’ve got no idea how long I’ve been standing here just staring at him.
“Pause, peace, power, right?” he says, cutely.
Inside, I’m melting. Like, I’m just a jumbled mess of bones and nerve endings because… Why is this the worst situation ever? Why can’t he just be bitter and ugly? Why is his V-neck…showing so much neck?
“Uh…oops, shoot. Please, don’t forget my tomatillo sauce.” I smile awkwardly, rushing over to grab my purse, but Linc waves me off, telling me it’s his treat. Because of course he does.
He lingers, and for a moment, it’s just us, and everything we’ve left unsaid.
The awkwardness presses down on my chest like a weight I can’t lift. The tension is so thick I could cut it with a rusty butter knife.
“Linc—”
“Ebony, are you still there?”
Shoot, Leslie.
The universe saves me from myself. I toss a glance over my shoulder, torn between making Leslie wait and finishing my thought. But really, there are two doors I can choose from: keep chasing the illusion of some perfect man who might love and cherish me or face the one standing right in front of me. I’m learning it’s rarely ever a simple choice.
Except I don’t get to choose.
Leslie’s voice muffles as he starts talking to someone off-screen. “She said she’d be right back. I want to make sure we schedule two dates and the private mixer for her…”
