Page 332 of Bitter’s Sweet

He stops at the doorway.

“Can I come in?”

Mercy looks up from the desk. “You have been coming into this room for fifteen years.”

“Wasn't asking you.”

His eyes stay on me.

Something warm opens in my chest.

“Yes.”

Then he enters.

Three months later and he still asks when it matters. Not every time he walks through a public doorway, because that would be exhausting, but when I am working and this room is mine, when he is entering my space instead of merely passing through it, he asks.

Turns out consistency is sexy.

Bitter puts my coffee beside my workstation and holds up the bag.

“Turkey sandwich.”

“You are the love of my life.”

His eyebrows rise. “You say that louder.”

“No.”

“Thought I heard something.”

“You heard gratitude.”

“Sounded like devotion.”

“Eat dirt.”

“Did plenty of that at the festival.”

Junie snorts.

Mercy mutters, “Children.”

Bitter looks at Mr. Avery.

“That him?”

“Yes.”

He stays where he is rather than leaning over the table.

“He look right?”

I turn back toward my work.

“I think so.”

Bitter studies him from a respectful distance.