Epilogue
Owen
Six Weeks Earlier
Ifeel them before I see them.
Two eyes watching me with intense focus.
My brows furrow as I scrub at the table a little harder than necessary, trying to ignore the discomfort prickling along my skin.
I really need to do something about the whole Elodie situation.
Her blatant need for attention used to bring me smug amusement; however, it’s beginning to get out of hand.
The daily visits, while irritating, I can’t do much about—she is a paying customer after all.
Although the lingering looks she sends my way while I’m trying to serve other patrons, I could live without.
It wasn’t this bad before Delilah left. My sweet sister has a special talent for keeping Elodie at bay.
But in her absence, it’s bloomed into a real problem.
Watching me clean through the cafe window might be an all-time low.
I grit my teeth and try to push down some of the building irritation. Between worrying about Delilah and taking care of Annabelle, I’ve got enough on my plate without adding fending off stalkers to my list. I’ve got to pull the Band-Aid off and talk to her.
I drag in a slow breath, steadying myself, and prepare to finally do what I should’ve done months—hell, years—ago.
She was the one who left me, for Christ’s sake.
The one who made it painfully clear I would never be enough.
That I was unlovable. Not a man. I don’t know what version of reality she’s living in, but in mine, people don’t just forget things like that.
Especially when the scars her words left behind are still as raw as the day she gave them to me.
Deciding I’ve let this morning’s nonsense go on long enough, I lift my gaze, fully expecting to find Elodie’s face so close to the glass I’ll have to clean it later.
Instead, I find…him.
My heart stutters to a stop.
I don’t have an advanced enough vocabulary to describe just how stunning the man looking back at me is. Ethereal briefly comes to mind, and I realize that up until this exact moment, I didn’t understand the meaning of that word. Not in the way I do now.
He’s such a tiny thing—mid twenties, at most—skin the fairest shade of porcelain. Pastel blue hair frames his soft face, making the scattering of freckles pop beneath his wide brown eyes. He is, perhaps, the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. My mouth is suddenly dry at the sight of him.
I blink slowly, not entirely sure he’s real, worried that when I open my eyes, he’ll be gone and Elodie in his place. I’m relieved to find him still exactly where I left him.
We don’t get many outsiders here, but it’s not unheard of.
The highway passes close enough that people occasionally venture into town looking for something better than gas station coffee.
I wonder what caused him to pull over here.
What events led him to this street, standing outside the cafe, staring in through my window with that lost, unfocused look in his eyes?
My hand is stuck on autopilot, repeating the same rubbing motion over the table, as I watch his Adam’s apple dip and rise around a swallow.
He clearly hasn’t noticed me watching him back.
The bags under his distant eyes, paired with the way that blue hair is mussed, suggest he’s running on not enough sleep and too many thoughts.
Why do I want to know all of those thoughts?
Before I can think better of it, I’m moving.
I don’t question it. I don’t particularly want to examine the urge either.
There’s just something about the way he’s standing there—slightly unsteady, looking so incredibly alone—that trips an instinct in me I’ve always had.
I take care of people. It’s what I do, what I’ve always done.
If I can do something for this man, even if it’s just putting a much-needed cup of caffeine in his hand, then that’s what I’m going to do.
My palms are sweaty as I reach for the handle, yanking the door open. The bell sounds its sharp, familiar ding.
“We’re open.” I try to keep my voice low and even, but his head snaps toward me like I’ve startled him, those chocolate pools going wide in panic. “Everything okay?”
I’m not convinced what comes out of his mouth is English, though I’m a little mesmerized by the sound of it anyway. I’m fairly certain I hear something about fucking angels tangled up in all his anxious rambling. He lets out a low, frustrated groan, and damn if I don’t like the sound of that too.
His eyes flick down the street. I can sense he’s ready to bolt. I should probably let him. That would be the reasonable—no, rational—thing to do. But then he sways slightly, and it cements my decision.
My hand presses at the small of his back, his waist tiny in contrast to the expanse of my palm, and I guide him slowly through the door. He doesn’t resist, which is fortunate, given this likely qualifies as a kidnapping. The bell rings again as the door clicks shut.
He doesn’t move once we’re inside. Just stands there, like he needs further direction.
His eyes bounce rapidly around the cafe.
A soft blush paints his fair cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.
It takes an impressive amount of effort not to run my finger along the hue to see if his skin is as soft as it looks.
I don’t know who he is, or where he came from, or why the oxygen in here is suddenly so thin.
I do know something about him feels…significant, which I’m aware is a completely ridiculous thought.
Thoughts like that belong only in movies, in the kind of sappy, hopeless love stories I stopped believing in a long time ago.
I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening here. It doesn’t feel real.
Then he looks back up at me, that earlier chaos settling as his eyes meet mine, and the axis of the entire world shifts.
I feel as the trajectory of my life is thrown completely off course.
And I know, with a certainty that makes no logical sense, that letting him walk back out that door would be the biggest mistake I could ever make.
“Sit,” I say.
He does.