Page 39 of What We Bury

“Someone stole it,” I say, topping off his mug and setting my hand on my hip. “Walked right in and took it out of my apartment while I was in the shower.”

His eyes travel down the length of me then back up to my eyes. “Shame. Should have locked your door, then.”

“I did.”

He smirks. “Maybe you’ll get out of the shower one day and it’ll be back where it was.”

Only if you’re also in my apartment wearing it . . .

I clear my throat before my brain can turn that thought into a whole scene.

“So . . . Eli, right?” I say, flipping my pad and making a show of looking bored, even though my heart is in my throat. “You ready to order, or are you just here to stare at me while wearingmyjacket?” After everything I’ve been through, I should not be this into someone I know is willing to chase me down and pin me to the ground. But here I am, wanting to touch the fire in his eyes and see if it burns.

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” he says, folding his hands around the mug. “And I have a strong case for adverse possession.”

I snort. “It was given to me. I want it back. Or at least visitation rights.”

His lip twitches, half-deflecting, half-pleased, and holy shit, his smile is devastating up close. “If you want joint custody, I’m open to negotiation.”

I hate myself for blushing, and hate it more when I realize I’m lingering at his table for no reason except the thrill of being close to him.

Someone two booths down clears his throat. “Excuse me, Miss?”

I turn to him. “Be right there.” Then my attention is back on Eli. “You want food or not?”

“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

“Brave man,” I say, lifting my brow before walking away to serve the guy who called me.

After checking on my other tables, I drop the now empty pot at the counter and breathe, tongue pressed flat to the roof of my mouth.

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s just a guy. A hot, feral, probably-off-his-meds guy who’s also a member of the weirdest boyband ever assembled. But still—just a guy.

I glance over, finding him reclined back in the booth, one arm stretched across the back. His eyes are locked on me, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips.

I take that back. How the hell am I supposed to deal withthat?

I put in the orders then wipe down the counter, focusing on the little circles, willing my hands to soothe the hiss of static under my skin. Eli doesn’t look away. He watches me work, unhurried.

The bell dings and I head to the kitchen window for pickups. When I bring his breakfast—classic eggs and sausage with hash browns and a side of house salsa—he glances up at me and nods. That’s it. No “thanks,” no more flirtatious banter. Just a nod.

Okay, Mr. Hot and Cold.

“Can I get you anything else?”

He shakes his head. “No. This is good.”

He stays for four hours.

Four hours of coffee refills and cleared plates. Four hours of feeling his eyes on me every time I turn my back, a warm pressure between my shoulder blades that I can’t shake and don’t entirely want to.

He doesn’t try to talk to me again. Doesn’t flag me down or do any of the things normal customers do when they’re killing time.He just sits there, quiet and watchful, like a guard dog who’s chosen his post and has no intention of moving.

It should be creepy. Itiscreepy, technically. A man I barely know, sitting in my workplace for half a day, tracking my movements with those steady amber eyes.

But every time I glance over and catch him looking, something in my chest loosens instead of tightens. Like my body has decided, without consulting my brain, that this particular man is safe. That his presence means protection, not threat.

I hate how much I want that to be true.