Bring Down the Stars

“Can we talk?”

“Sure.” He moved his legs and indicated for me to take the chair opposite him.

I sat with my purse in my lap, needing some kind of barrier between me and Weston’s barbed stare. “I wanted to apologize for Sunday night—”

“Don’t,” Wes said. “Nothing to apologize for.”

“There is,” I said. “It’s a little tacky to have disturbed your sleep. If we did. And then coming out wearing your shirt.”

“Forget it.” Weston shifted in his seat, his blue-green eyes turbulent like a stormy sea. “No big deal.”

“It’s a big deal to me,” I said. “Connor and I are getting more serious and I don’t want there to be any weirdness between you and me.”

He stared for a second, then nodded. “Right. Weirdness.”

I puffed my cheeks full of air. “I was hoping you and I could be friends. I don’t want to come over and feel like an intruder.”

“You’re not. It’s me.” His long fingers toyed with his pen. “I can be a dick. Ask anyone.”

“I don’t think you’re a dick,” I said and grinned. “Maybe not the softest or fuzziest of guys, but you have potential.”

“Potential?”

“Sure. Maybe if you rolled around with a basket full of puppies or held a baby chick or two, like we have on the farm… Fix you right up.”

The faintest of smiles touched his lips then vanished again. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?” He cleared his throat. “You’re probably sick of eating here.”

“I like the food here,” I said, touched at the offer. “But no thanks. I have a late night of studying. Actually, a coffee might be a good idea.”

I started to rise, but Weston was quicker.

“I’ll get it.”

“Don’t, I have an employee discount.”

But Weston ignored me. He took his lean, muscled body to the counter and interrupted Phil’s usual phone scrolling to order me a coffee. Edmond burst from the back, a blue windbreaker jacket on over his white uniform, just as Weston was paying.

“What is this?” Edmond said, spying me. “Autumn, ma chère.”

I smiled and waved. “Hi, Edmond.”

The baker’s gaze moved between Weston and me. “Monsieur Turner never drinks coffee before racing day. It is for Autumn?” He shot Phil a dirty look. “Philippe, return to him his money.”

I suppressed a laugh as Phil rolled his eyes and hunted for the refund button, but Weston waved him off. “It’s okay, Edmond. I got it.”

“Thank you,” I said, as Weston returned to the table and set down the steaming mug in front of me. “You and Edmond know each other?”

“Of course we do,” Edmond answered, swooping over to us. “Weston is un homme tranquille. Our quiet man, always reading. Always writing. Very still. But tomorrow? He runs very fast, non?”

I glanced at Weston, expecting him to chafe under Edmond’s bluster, but he was almost smiling.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums me up.”

“And you two, together?” Edmond beamed under his mustache. “My thoughtful girl and the quiet man. This, I like.”

“We’re friends,” I said. Then glanced at Weston. “Aren’t we?”

He nodded, his eyes soft on mine. “Yeah. Friends.”