Make Her Mine

No such luck. A minute later, the door crashes open again, so hard it hits a wall downstairs.

Fuck.

I haul myself off the ladder onto the roof, and even though every instinct in my body wants to run, flee the scene as fast as I can, I force myself to move slowly. Lower the roof door an inch at a time so the rusty hinges won’t scream out and give me away.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I ease the roof hatch completely closed.

Then I do the only thing I can think of, up here on top of a five-story building, my truck a distant dot on the street, and no sign of a fire escape in sight.

I sit on the hatch.

It takes longer than I expect. Judging by the amount of locks on his door, I would’ve pegged him for a quicker study than this.

The seconds tick past, but I keep myself perfectly still, trained by years of practice. Eventually, there it comes, the thud underneath me, and the pressing weight of Ian shoving up on the trap door. Of course, I weigh too much for him to get any purchase while balanced on that rickety ladder up here. He shoves against the door a couple of times, until, unable to make it budge, he gives up. I press my ear to the crack in the trapdoor and listen to him trudge back downstairs. Only then do I stand and creep toward the roof’s edge.

There’s a ten-foot drop onto the nearest balcony, and I let myself fall, landing hard on my feet. I keep my eyes on the window beside it. No movement inside, and gauzy white curtains shield me from view.

I curl up on the porch to wait it out. If I run right downstairs now, Ian will be on high alert. But if I sit here and cool off a little, give him time to go outside and check the front of the building, I’ll be able to climb down the couple of porches along this face of the building until I reach the ground.

It’ll take longer than I expected this errand to take, but I don’t have much choice. I check my watch and release a harsh breath. Shit. It’s already 5. This is running way late. Skye gets off from the day shift she’s working in a few minutes and I’d promised to meet her at work.

As much as it pains me, I’ll have to put the thought out of my head, lean back against the railing, and wait.

I’ve never been much good at waiting.

16

Skye

It’s 5:30, and there’s still no sign of Stone. I sit on the curb outside Monroe’s, having already waved goodbye to my co-workers half an hour ago. Greg, my boss, sticks his head out of the door when another round of customers enter.

“Christina’s running late. You want to come back in and cover ’til she gets here?” he asks.

I cast one last, longing glance at the road in both directions, but alas, there’s no sign of his truck anywhere. I heave a sigh then trail after Greg into the diner, slinging on my apron once more. “Just for a few minutes,” I tell him. “Then I have to run.”

“Uh huh,” he drawls with a meaningful sideways glance that tells me he’s not buying it. It’s not like I told him I had a date, but when was the last time I ever waited around for anyone to pick me up besides Ian? And when Ian picks me up, he always insists on arriving an hour early so he can get a free meal out of it.

So now, not only have I been stood up, but my douche of a boss knows it too. He saw me with Stone last week; he’ll have guessed by now I’m waiting around for that same guy like a pathetic fool.

“You know, guys like it when you play hard-to-get,” my coworker Bethany comments as she breezes past me with a tray full of Rick’s overcooked steaks.

Wonderful. Greg helpfully told everyone who works here his theory too.

Greg pats my shoulder as I head back to the register to key in the first of Christina’s tables’ orders. “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea,” he says with a smirk.

Kill me now.

I end up sticking around for the first two hours of Christina’s shift. By the time she makes it into the diner at 7:30, apologizing profusely about her car breaking down, the dinnertime rush is out in full force. I stay for an extra half an hour to help with the flurry of custome

rs, and then I clock out once more, folding my apron and counting out my tips for the second time today.

“You didn’t drive today?” Greg calls as I’m almost to the door and I turn around and shake my head. It was nice out this morning and I’d walked since Stone had volunteered to pick me up for a date tonight and my car is close to death. “I’m finishing up here in twenty. Want me to give you a lift?”

“I’m good.” I pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “I’ll just walk. It’s not too far.” And walking in the pleasantly breezy early September air will give me an opportunity to clear my head.

“Suit yourself.” He shrugs and goes back to counting our profits from the dinner rush.

I push out of the exit door and suck in a deep breath of salt-tinged seaside air. Only now, finally alone and away from the prying eyes of my co-workers, do I let the disappointment and exhaustion show on my face.