ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

35. attempts at honesty

THERE'S A SCIENCE to winning a game of chicken.

The first step is always to make sure the other player knows they're part of the game.

This starts with the setup.

I smooth my emerald green minidress down so that it hugs my hips, taking care not to look up too often from my notebook in case Dane happens to walk in through the worn wood of the front door.

The time on my phone reads 8:30.

He's late.

Careful research (and by research I mean asking random, borderline invasive questions during our writing sessions) has given me invaluable information. Nearly every night he goes for coffee at the little house-shaped shop down the street.

Which I'd questioned because who the hell drinks coffee at night?

A demon probably.

But that's not my main concern at the moment.

I snap my notebook shut as a guy sinks onto the barstool next me, shooting over a lop-sided smile. He's got wheat blonde hair, beat-up jeans, and a T-shirt. And he's definitely not Dane Anderson.

"Writing?"

"Yeah, something like that," I smile my nice girl smile, specially reserved for unwelcome strangers, before taking a sip of my cherry limeade.

He looks away from me briefly to place his order with the barista, eyes quickly returning as soon as he's done. "Do you go to school around here?"

"Oh, no. Why do you ask?"

"Was just wondering since I don't think I've ever seen you around."

I shrug. "Well, it is a big city."

As if the universe has suddenly decided to put me out of my misery, the bell over the front door chimes. My gaze shoots up over the man's shoulder.

Bingo.

The target has arrived.

Dane doesn't notice me at first, busy with his phone. Then as if sensing my gaze on him, his eyes snap up, finding mine instantly. I see first recognition, then amusement, then something like confusion.

Confusion?

That's not what I was going for.

He doesn't come over the way I'd planned in my strategy, instead drifting over to the opposite side of the bar to order his drink. The man next to me is still talking, but I've turned him out, trying to burn holes into Dane's head from across the bar.

His eyes don't meet mine again until he's gotten his drink. Black coffee, I bet. Hazel narrows—a question. Who is that?

Oh.

Oh.

I shrug as stealthily as I can, communicating back with my best look of innocence. I don't know, just someone.

You're sitting with him.

Not necessarily by choice.

His brows raise, and he lifts a finger to motion me over. I look up at the ceiling, tapping my finger to the counter like I'm considering it before jolting my head—a signal for him to come over himself.

He closes his eyes briefly, obviously weighing his choices. Wondering if following my directions will mean he's losing some kind of game.

Eventually a decision is reached. He shoots me a look that sends shivers down my spine, running a finger along the rim of his coffee cup before unfolding from his seat.