Chapter 8 #2
She wraps her hand around her to-go cup.
“It’s quite possible a bare face, T-shirts, jeans, and.
. . ” She peeks under the table. “Combat boots are Cole’s thing.
No one would really know. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him dating anyone, and the socials would know.
” She points one manicured nail at me. “But you’re crazy if you think you’ll be able to follow him around, and people won’t think you’re his girlfriend. ”
That little statement has my bagel running to force its way back up.
She takes off her sunglasses and sets them on the table. “Like Van said, he appears more vulnerable if you’re dating him versus being a well-trained assassin.”
I groan, slumping in my chair.
I’m not putting on the revealing clothes that research suggests girlfriends wear to these games. I’m not self-conscious about my body. I just don’t want other people to see it. It’s mine and for me only.
But also, following him around in my daily uniform and boots made for smashing someone’s face in probably won’t give off girl. . .friend vibes.
“Shit.” I drop my head into my hands.
She laughs like my misery is entertaining. “Ry, it won’t be so bad.”
I lift my head only enough to see her face. She looks like she’s been waiting her whole life for this opportunity. I want to punch her, but I know she can hit back.
“He has a game this weekend,” I mumble through my fingers.
She snaps her laptop closed. “Well, what the hell are we doing here then? We’ve got to get home. I have boxes full of new swag we can sort through. Between that and my closet, we’ll get you set for a while.”
She stands, and I remain seated. I want to pull all my hair out.
She sits again. “Ryder.” Her voice is tender, and sympathy fills her gaze.
I want to look away.
“I understand this is painful. All of it.”
I know she knows.
“It really will be ok. We’ll make sure you still feel like you. I promise.”
I stare at her. If there’s anyone I trust with this, it’s Lyla. She’s got mad skills in this department.
I nod unenthusiastically.
Her smile returns, and she grabs my hand. “Come on. This is gonna be so great.”
“Great, my ass. You just need to make sure my holster fits.”
She laughs. “Hurry up. We need all the time, before the girls get out of school.”
“Time? For me to survive, it’ll take a miracle.”
______
Cole pulls open the door to a small coffee shop, holding it for me.
My eyes coast up and down the street. “You have to go first, just like you stay between me and the buildings.”
He remains still for only a moment before stepping through the door, but I catch the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
What the hell is so funny?
I follow him to the counter, surveying the space.
A young man with black hair and piercings, wearing headphones, is typing on a laptop in the back corner.
An older man with glasses perched on his nose, looking like he should be smoking a pipe, sits against the exposed brick wall, reading.
Three teenage girls are seated at a table by the window, each with a large iced coffee.
They take turns glancing in our direction before returning to their phones.
The remaining handful of tables are empty.
Cole orders a matcha latte, then turns to me. “Order whatever you’d like.”
I survey the street again beyond the large windows, feeling the barista’s eyes on me. “Thanks. I’ll get my own.”
His shoulders fall a little, but I notice it. He turns toward me, his back to the barista. “Don’t be weird.”
Three pairs of young eyes bore into my back. Cole’s gaze moves over my head, confirming it.
He leans a little closer. “I may not be able to hold the door for you, but since you’re here for me, I’m going to buy your coffee or whatever it is you’d like.”
His blue, blue eyes hold mine, waiting. This man and his chivalry.
I inhale and exhale slowly and steadily. “This isn’t a date. It’s my job to be here. I’ll buy my own coffee.”
We are setting boundaries in our newfound working relationship, and I want to keep things crystal clear.
His head cocks to the side, eyes locked on mine. I scan the tables.
When my gaze returns to him, he’s smiling. He’s freaking smiling.
“Consider it a job perk.”
He turns to the woman behind the counter, not giving me another chance to refuse or witness my glare.
I huff, disturbed by his self-assured persistence. “Small coffee. Black.” I order, surrendering.
The barista punches her screen, clearly entertained by our exchange. Cole taps his card and checks his phone while we wait for our drinks.
“Carly is running a few minutes late, but she should be here any minute,” Cole says, still scrolling.
I picked Cole up from the practice facility after spending most of the morning and afternoon in the middle of Lyla’s clothes, makeup, and more girlie shit than I ever knew existed.
Now, we’re meeting Carly, Cole’s private chef.
He told me last night she’s not a threat.
I’m reserving judgment until I meet this chick and can see for myself.
We grab our drinks, and Cole leads us to a table, the three girls watching our every move. He’s unfazed by their whispers and raised phones.
He pulls a chair out but stands, waiting for me to sit.
“I’ll sit over there.” I tip my head in the direction of a table closer to the window, where I can see everything.
His dark brows pinch together.
“To give you some privacy,” I say, not needing to sit in on his business meeting.
His eyes flick over my head to the girls, who I suspect have filmed our entire interaction.
“Ryder.” His tone is soft, and all casual lightness has disappeared. “I don’t need privacy. I have games, meetings, and events. You don’t need to stand off to the side.” His eyes rise to the girls again. “People are going to watch us. I need you to be ok with that.”
For the first time, I hear a pleading frustration in his tone. His eyes show a hint of sadness I don’t understand.
Well, shit.
I stifle a groan. “I have to sit facing the door.”
He nods and moves over, making room for me to sit beside him. I slide into the chair, keeping distance between us.
Our audience giggles as they tap away on their phones. “Does that ever get old?”
Cole stares at his phone, scrolling again. “This is just the beginning, Ryder. If I let it bother me, I’d never leave my house.”
I glance at him, but his eyes remain glued to his screen while I watch the door and everything else. “How often do you get approached?”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “Often, although, most just take pictures or videos and then blast them everywhere.”
It’s what’s happening fifteen feet from us.
“What are their captions going to read?” I ask, wanting to be prepared for what these girls will post.
His gaze flicks to the group, and then his eyes peek at me out of the corner. A small smile returns that makes my stomach squeeze tight like it knows it needs to hide from whatever is about to come out of his mouth.
“Do you really want to know?”
Nope, I really don’t.
But whether I like it or not, this is where I am.
I sip my coffee, needing it to give me invisible powers so I can be here without really being here. “That bad, huh?”
He laughs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, his elbow an inch from my bicep. “Actually, given how you look as if every ounce of joy has vanished for eternity and like you might kill the next person who comes through the door, the memes will be entertaining.”
I swivel my head in his direction, unable to read his tone. His gaze remains on his phone, but his words are a delayed punch in the face. His plea about not wanting to create a bigger stir rings in my ears.
Dammit.
I sit a little taller, resting my arms on the table as I try to relax and not make this worse for either of us. “So, Carly, your chef, will see me sitting beside you and think, what? That I want to kill her?” My sarcasm slips out before I can squash it.
His smile returns. “She might.” He takes a drink. “But I’ll introduce you as my. . .friend.”
“Friend?”
He sets his phone on the table, angling himself to face me. “Look, we can do this any way you want. People will make assumptions. If word spreads that we’re dating or hooking up or whatever story they want to spin bothers you, then maybe we need to rethink this whole thing.”
I lean back at his assertion, and his arm brushes me as he removes it from my chair. Tracker’s words kick me straight in the gut.
You quit running and hiding a long time ago. This is it. This is the final piece that will set you free.
The door swings open, and a woman steps through in flowy, high-waisted turquoise pants and a fitted white top with a large purse over her shoulder.
She pushes sunglasses on top of her head to hold back her shoulder-length, curly, dark brown hair.
She smiles and waves at Cole, her eyes snagging on me, but only for a second before she proceeds to the counter.
Carly. She’s tall, of medium build, and pretty. She holds herself confidently as she orders, reminding me a bit of Vanessa. I’m waiting to see how she interacts with the man sitting beside me.
I force out the breath I was stifling for comfort. “I’m sorry,” I offer quickly.
He turns to look at me, but my eyes stay trained on the woman at the counter.
“This is new for me.” Vulnerability is a real bitch. “Whatever assumptions are made will be fine, and I’ll. . .try not to look like all happiness has been sucked from the earth or like I’m going to kill someone.”
There’s silence from the man next door.
But then I hear, “Even if they think you’re my girlfriend or that we’re sleeping together or whatever else they try to sell?” I hear the hesitancy in his question. “Because as soon as Carly walked in, she probably thought—”
“It’s fine.”
He glances at me, likely wondering if it really is fine, but it has to be.
Carly swipes her drink from the counter and joins us.
No wedding ring.