Coming Swoon (Brunch Bros #4)

Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

Sybil hated making schedules. One day, she was going to invest in one of those programs that made the schedule, but in the meantime, she was stuck doing it by hand, the old-fashioned way.

The phone next to the computer rang.

“Stardust Coffee, this is Sybil.”

“Hi, Sybil. This is Gary from Haney’s Auto Body. Do you have a minute to talk?”

Her stomach sank. After the collision with the deer, she’d had her car towed to the mechanic in town, who then referred her to an auto body shop in Florence. They said they’d call her when they had an estimate.

“I do. What’s the damage?”

“With our current workload, we’ll have the car back to you next week. As for cost?—”

“Please don’t tell me how much it’s going to cost. My boyfriend said he’d cover it, and I don’t want to know.”

Boyfriend . The word fell out of her mouth, completely bypassing her brain. Was Peter her boyfriend? If she asked him, he’d say yes before she finished the question. “Are you my—” “ Yes.” The possessive “my” would be enough to get him nodding rapidly.

He’d certainly surpassed the Boyfriend Residency Requirements since it would be his fifth night in a row sleeping in her bed, with another seven nights on the horizon if he continued to insist on room and board for his chauffeur services.

But those nine letters didn’t bring her joy or peace. They were the harbingers of anxiety. Acknowledging and labeling their relationship meant she had to admit that it wasn’t casual, and if it wasn’t casual, she’d opened herself up to an entire world of heartache.

Gary’s voice yanked her back to the present.

“Since you’re not going through insurance, we do require a forty percent deposit to start the work. Is your boyfriend around so we can set that up?”

“Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

She’d left Peter at the table usually occupied by his father while she did her office work, not trusting him or herself with a door that locked. One massive perk of allowing him to spend the night was that every night he’d been at her house she’d had an assisted orgasm. But when she exited the office and looked toward the table, Peter was gone.

A warm, rich, rolling Southern Welsh voice resonated from the side room where the romance book club was meeting. The only reason that Sybil knew that was because she’d made the very entertaining mistake of asking Peter about his father’s accent. Arthur was from the Cotswolds. But simply telling her that wasn’t good enough for him. He had to take her on a vocal tour of the United Kingdom to demonstrate the differences.

Peter had infiltrated book club. Whether he’d been invited or had invited himself, she didn’t know, but he was sitting in the circle reading a passage from the historical romance the group had read that month.

“I do not want you to be my wife in name only, Honoria. I do not wish for you to lie back and think of England when I come to your bed. I was selfish when we married and you have borne that as I never could. I thought only of my title and your money when we wed. But you’ve blazed across my life like one of those comets you told me about and lit up the corners of my dark soul. I love you, Honoria, my wife. I am begging you not to go to the continent. Please give me another chance, and I shall endeavor with every beat of my heart to deserve you.”

A gasping sob from one of the women in the group broke the delicate spell Peter had woven over the room. He looked up from the book, and his eyes met Sybil’s. The corner of his mouth quirked upward in a lopsided grin. Her heart stuttered, and she ignored the warmth that flooded her cheeks.

Sybil curled her finger and beckoned him to her. Without a word, he handed the borrowed book to the woman sitting next to him and crossed the room. She stepped out of earshot.

“The auto body shop wants to talk to you,” she told him.

Peter frowned. “Me? But it’s your car.”

“But it’s your money,” she reminded him. “They’re on hold in my office.”

“Are you going to be in your office?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She rolled her eyes. “No, besides you already pounced on me this morning.”

“But what about second pouncings? And elevenses?”

“ Go .”

He grinned at her, making her nerves hum like a live wire, and ducked into her office.

Oh, yes, she was definitely in danger of getting her heart absolutely shattered again, label or no label.

Sybil sent her closers on their breaks, confident she could handle the light evening crowd. While she was restocking the cups, Peter popped out of the office, checked for witnesses in the exaggerated way he could, then kissed her on the cheek before scurrying back to his table before she could smack him with the towel she’d tossed over her shoulder.

The bell above the door jingled and she looked up. Marianne Warner, coach of the high school cheerleading squad, entered. If “Most Likely To Peak In High School” had been a superlative in the yearbook, Marianne would’ve won in a landslide. Instead, she’d won “Most Talkative,” which unfortunately didn’t have a substance requirement, because Marianne had only ever been full of spite and hot air. It was karmically fitting that she’d finally started to date Mitch Appleton after more than a decade of hot pursuit on her part. They really deserved each other.

“Iced, non-fat, sugar free hazelnut macchiato, light on the ice, no whip.”

Marianne’s voice never failed to rake across Sybil’s skin like claws. She bristled and took three calming breaths before walking up to the register to slowly tap in Marianne’s order.

“Macchiatos don’t come with whip.”

“I didn’t want to risk you making a mistake.” Marianne checked her cell phone. “Mitch will be here soon. Make him a decaf, sugar-free caramel latte. And make sure it’s decaf. I don’t want him up all night.”

Sybil didn’t point out that Mitch never ordered decaf or sugar-free. If Marianne was controlling his sleep habits, she was probably trying to rein in his weight gain. Sybil might have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t been such an unmitigated asshole the entire time she’d known him.

Marianne paid for the drinks and then stood at the end of the bar to watch Sybil make them.

“Oh my god. Is that Peter Green?” she stage-whispered, unfortunately audible over the hiss of the steamer.

Sybil flicked her eyes in the direction of Peter’s little corner table. He was reading his book again, either oblivious to the conversation happening at the counter, or doing a very good job of acting like he wasn’t listening.

“Yes, it is. Don’t bother him.”

Ignoring things she didn’t want to hear had always been a strong suit of Marianne’s. She strode over to Peter’s table like she’d been invited, but before Sybil could do anything to stop her, the romance book club started to file out of the side room, meandering toward the door and making it hard to hear what was happening across the room.

There was the usual humble smile and head nod he did when he thanked someone for being a fan. He graciously took a photo. And then it seemed like he tried to say goodbye to Marianne, but she didn’t leave. She touched his arm, and he subtly moved it away. When she scooted closer, he pretended to look for something on the floor and slid further along the bench.

Peter normally talked enough to make strangers regret ever saying hello to him, so the fact that he was trying to get away from Marianne meant that he had some survival instincts, except he was too polite. His smiles became tighter and his body looked so tense she knew he’d twang if she tapped him with a fork.

Marianne touched his arm again, and any restraint left in Sybil’s body vanished.

“Hey!” Sybil barked, and the entire room froze. “He’s too nice to say it, but I’m not. Back. The. Fuck. Off.”

All eyes turned on Marianne, who sputtered, “I’m not doing anything?—”

Sybil kept her tone cold and even, so it could not for one second be interpreted as a friendly request. “I told you not to bother him, and you did. Either get away from him right now, or get the fuck out.”

Marianne’s eyes darted around the room as she tried to calculate how much support she’d get if she stayed right where she was and cried harassment. Her brain was working so hard that Sybil could practically see steam coming out of her ears from the effort.

By some miracle, Marianne was able to read the room. She snatched her purse from the bench and stomped out of Stardust, intercepting Mitch on the sidewalk and dragging him with her.

The collective gaze of the romance book club fell on Sybil, and she felt the hot blush crawling from her chest up her neck to her face.

“What?” she snapped, and threw Mitch and Marianne’s half made drinks into the garbage as the end punctuation to the interaction.

Like a video catching up after lag, the room sped through their usual goodbyes and hustled out the door. Sybil noted that those that said goodbye to Peter and thanked him for reading were extra polite and brief.

Once Stardust had emptied out of everyone except for her and Peter, she took a deep breath, expanding her lungs as far as her ribs would allow, then let it out slowly through her lips. Her heart was pounding and she was jittery, like she’d eaten a bowl of espresso beans for breakfast.

“Have you ever considered a second career as a bodyguard?” Peter asked. “I’d hire you.”

“I don’t think anyone outside of Crane Cove would take me seriously as a threat,” she said, lacing her fingers together on top of her head, something she’d seen Connor tell his runners to do after a race.

“I don’t know. I was pretty intimidated by you when we met.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell by the way you wouldn’t leave me alone.” She took another deep breath. “You need to stand up for yourself when someone is making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yes, it is.”

Peter slid his bookmark into his book and gently shut it. “No, it’s not. If I’m short with someone, or if I decline an interaction, I’m labeled as rude. People are always looking for a reason to label me as another problematic, spoiled nepo baby.”

“Why do you care what people think? Your safety and comfort matter more than what ignorant people call you in the comment section. You’re allowed to have boundaries. Sam doesn’t have an issue telling people to get the fuck out of his bubble.”

“It’s different for Sam. There are only so many jobs out there for an actor. If I’m considered difficult, my phone doesn’t ring. I don’t work. He can be a pill and then write an album about it, and people will say ‘Oh, he’s so misunderstood’ and buy it. He doesn’t have to wait to be booked.”

“I think your peace of mind and bodily autonomy are more important than being perceived as a nice guy.”

Peter looked down and toyed with the slightly bent corner of the cover of his book. Sybil’s mounting frustration dissipated like steam escaping a hot kettle, and she went and sat next to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Anyone who’s met you for even fifteen seconds would never, ever say that you’re rude,” she said gently, squeezing his forearm. “You are the kindest, most generous person I’ve ever known, and if someone whose knowledge of you only extends as far as your pedigree wants to talk shit, fuck ’em. Don’t sacrifice your peace and put yourself in potential danger so strangers who don’t matter will call you nice.”

“This is why you can’t leave me again. Who else is going to tell me this?”

Sybil began to tick off names on her fingers. “Graham, Sam, Dempsey?—”

“Okay, okay, yes, them. But none of them look as pretty as you do when they say it.” He kissed her forehead. “I love you so much.”

Sybil pressed her face into his neck, like she could hide from the way those words cracked her open and overwhelmed her.

“I need to finish the schedule,” she mumbled.

“I can watch the front,” he offered.

“Do not, under any circumstances, touch my espresso machine.”