Page 15 of Don't Go
Kit came up beside me. He watched the door swing closed.
“She'll be back,” he said.
“Mmm…”
“She'll be back tomorrow.”
“Definitely.”
He bumped my shoulder with his. “How was the rich-people thing?”
“Fine.” I ran a credit card. I handed it back. I pulled two bottles down from the back shelf for an older couple who'd just sat down at the rail. “Cabernet, please. Two.”
“Coming up.”
Kit kept watching me. He’s twenty-six. He’s one of three people who can read my face, which is annoying, because the other two share a last name with me.
“Sabrina.”
“What?”
“You went somewhere.”
“I didn't.”
“You did. I just watched it happen. You did the eye thing.”
“There is no eye thing.”
“There is absolutely an eye thing.”
I poured the cabernets, skipped the garnish, and took the ticket. I came back and started cutting limes because someone was going to want a margarita. I refused to be unprepared.
He waited. Kit's whole technique is the wait. He's perfected it. He could wait out a glacier.
“Fine,” I shrugged.
“Yes.”
“There was a guy.”
“I knew it!” he chuckled.
“Don't.”
“I knew it! I knew it the second you walked in. You did the walk.”
“There is also no walk.”
“Tell me more. Come on.”
“He was a guest. He ordered the most insufferable Negroni of my career. He told me he hated the foundation. I told him I'd heard the owner of the foundation was a trust-fund baby.”
Kit stopped. The lime knife stopped with him. He lowered it slowly to the cutting board, because he was a professional and he respected a knife.
“Sabrina.”
“What.”
