“Surprise me,” he said, leaning forward, his elbows on the counter. I had a vague memory of Owen doing the same thing, back when I’d thought he was just another customer and I’d warned him about the coffee, but then the image shifted so that he was leering instead of smiling and I was telling him about the nasty coffee to get rid of him. Yes, that was what had really happened. I must have tried remembering otherwise to make it easier to work with him.
Josh hung around for a while, chatting with Florence and me when we weren’t busy and staying to the side when we were. After lunch, he said, “Well, I’d better get going. I have some things to do to get ready for tonight.”
“Tonight?” I asked, but then the memory came flooding back. “Oh, yes, tonight, that special dinner you’ve got planned. You still can’t give me any hints?”
“Nope. Just wear something pretty.” He grinned. “A manicure might be nice if you’ve got the time.”
“A manicure?” I asked, but he was already gone. Then I figured it out. People would be seeing my fingernails if I were showing off a ring. “Florence, I think he’s planning to propose tonight!”
“Yeah, I bet he is,” she said dryly.
I examined my nails. “I don’t think I have time for a manicure.” Holding my hands toward Florence, I asked, “Do I need a manicure? Or can I maybe get by with a quick file and buff?”
She glanced at my hands before gently pushing them away. “You’re fine, and I don’t think you need the manicure for getting the ring slipped on your finger, just for showing it off afterward. You could get the manicure tomorrow. That is, assuming you say yes and will be wearing the ring.”
“Of course I’ll say yes. Why wouldn’t I?”
She stared at me silently for a while, then said, “Just be sure that’s what you want, okay? Think about it long and hard before you go to that dinner, and then don’t let anything that happens sway you. Go with your gut, with your first strong impulse, not with any afterthought that might hit you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? We’ve been talking about getting married for ages. This is only going to formalize it.”
“I just want you to get what you want—what you deserve,” she said, turning away. She looked troubled, with frown lines between her eyes, tension around her mouth, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, tears in her eyes.
“Florence, what is it?” I asked, catching her arm before she could move away from me. “Is there something you know that you aren’t telling me? You haven’t seen him with another woman, or anything like that, have you? I can take it, whatever it is, and I’d rather know now before I make any major decisions.”
As she faced me, Florence seemed to be in real pain—agony, even. She took a deep breath, started to say something, then squeezed her lips shut and shook her head. After a long pause, she said, “I just don’t think he’s good for you. Don’t ask me why I think that, but I do. That’s all. I want you to think for yourself.”
I blinked, taken aback. “Who said I wasn’t thinking for myself? It’s not like he has me under an evil spell, or anything like that.” Then I frowned. “You’ve never liked him, have you? You’ve been against him from the start. But I do like him, and I believe I’m intelligent enough to make my own decisions.”
For the rest of the day, we spoke only enough to get our work done, which made for an awkward working environment. It would have been a relief to go downstairs to help award the prizes to the treasure hunt winners, but that meant facing Owen. I kept a wary distance from him the whole time and tried to avoid looking directly at him. The impression of his attention being unwanted had faded, but being around him gave me that unsettling feeling of teetering on the brink between two realities. When I saw him heading toward me, I escaped upstairs. Even Florence’s iciness was preferable to that.
My shift ended with the end of the contest, and after I’d put away my apron and turned the coffee shop over to the evening crew, I tried to get out of the store without running into Owen, to no avail. He’d been waiting for me and pulled me aside. “What’s wrong, Katie?” he asked, looking so hurt and confused that my heart broke for him for a moment, until I remembered what he’d done.
“You dare to ask that?” I snarled.
“You’re angry because I gave you a promotion without checking with you first? You can turn it down if you don’t want it.”
I remembered that conversation, and in that memory, we’d been acting like friends. I hadn’t seen him as a threat, hadn’t found his attention unwelcome. I’d liked him. My stance on him wavered. “No, that’s not it …” I said vaguely, trying to recapture what the problem was.
