Fruitbat

11. 11

11

Si

2:27 am

Danny needs to smile more—like that. He’s absolutely stunning. His flushed cheeks squinch maple eyes—that gleam—even under fluorescent lights.

“So, you’re a writer?” I ask, tapping each spout on the row of coffee thermoses.

“I dabble,” he mutters, shying away.

I skip back to the counter. “What do you write?”

“Garbage, according to the publishers.”

“I doubt that.” My eyes drop to stacks of candy bars along the front of the checkout counter and I drag my finger across the wrappers. “Wait, the papers in your bag. Is that your book?” My face burns as I realized my confession to nosing through his things.

His brow wrinkles and he stares through me.

“I was looking for a phone earlier.” I swallow the thickness in my throat. “Sorry.” I swig from the lukewarm energy drink still sitting next to the cash register.

“Oh . . .” Danny shifts uncomfortably, red with shame or anger. I can’t tell which through the scowl.

Smile again, please?

“I bet it’s amazing. I have a friend in publishing. Her taste is horrendous, don’t tell her I said so.” I say, waiting for his face to soften.

The edge of Danny’s mouth presses that single adorable dimple.

Phew!

“Could I read some?” I drape myself over the counter and kick my feet. My face is close enough to capture a whiff of cinnamon-toast, mixed with a tinge of coffee breath.

“Sure,” he says uncertainly.

—But he doesn’t move to collect the bundle of papers, so I wag a brow and a finger, asking for permission to gather them from the office myself.

He nods, uncomfortably averting his eyes out the window.

I trot back to the desk in the office and pull the stuffed folders out of his satchel, then return to the front counter and lay them over its surface.

He watches me, meeting my eyes before shyly dropping his to the stacks again .

“Are you sure?”

He nods, saying “Go ahead,” then adds in a rush, “They still need more editing.”

I hug the precious treasures to my chest and stroll to the back of the store. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, in the far corner, under the “wine” section of shelves, I spread the top folder open on my lap.

“They’re kinda dark . . .” he warns.

I smile back at him and dig in.