Linger

By Olivia Aycock

I know better than to dream—especially about the super sexy bearded hottie who sits with me on my break every Sunday night. Since Christmas, Tom has been increasingly flirty, and with Valentine's Day coming up, I hope...

No, I can't afford to hope, either. 

What I can afford to do is keep working two jobs so I can eventually finish my nursing degree—and forget the way his intense, direct gaze makes me feel all lit up inside.

What happens when all a girl's got is her dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Aycock
• Release date: Feb 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524276102

Olivia Aycock

Olivia Aycock writes romance with an erotic edge. Her characters might be urban sophisticates or have sweet southern style. But no matter the setting, you can always expect a satisfying ending.

Book preview

1

Reina

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He wasn’t coming.

Of course he’s not coming. It’s Valentine’s Day. There were teenagers and hearts and flowers everywhere. I made more hot chocolate tonight than I did the week before Christmas. Apparently, young lovers preferred hot chocolate. With sprinkles on top.

Seriously. We didn’t have sprinkles, so why did everyone ask for them?

At least there was a lull in traffic. People walked in the door, saw the tables crammed full, and walked right back out. I should have mourned my lack of tips, but it wasn’t like tips helped a whole damn lot anyway.

The urge to check the time was strong, but I was nowhere near the register, had no reason to be. I hated that we weren’t allowed to wear watches. As if time ceased to exist because we were hap-hap-happily serving the masses their steaming or ice-cold cups of high-priced goodness.

I snuck a glance at the register on my way to restock the napkins.

Just because it was Sunday night at 6:47 didn’t mean he wasn’t coming.

But he always came and sat down by 6:45, I reminded myself. Always packed up and left at 9:45, a respectful fifteen minutes before closing time—though I often imagined what might happen if he stayed late.

Imagining got me nowhere.

The napkins need no more fluffing and I’d mopped up an upended twenty-ounce hot chocolate that went every-freaking-where. On some girl’s leg and expensive handbag and I was sure it would somehow be all my fault when she emailed corporate to get a complainer card.

It was a personal favorite when women who carried handbags worth more than my monthly rent payment handed over the piece of paper that every employee called the complainer card. And I could usually predict when one would make an appearance—nine times out of ten, it came after the guest said the most ridiculous combination of words that amounted to ‘no fat, no fun, no real joy’ in this order.

Mop put away. Napkins fluffed. Spice rack cleaned up and organized. I’d pretty much done all I could out here while I waited.

Nope. I wasn’t waiting. For anyone—er, anything. Just working. Work, work, work, work, work. My favorite.

I resisted the urge to make sure there weren’t any dinosaur bumps in my sideswept hairdo. I’d get written up for fiddling with my hair, plus, I was pretty sure the extra time I’d spent doing a fancy fishtail braid hours ago was a total waste.

A man stepped next to me to dump out some of his coffee and pour about six ounces of half-and-half in the cup—jerk—and I surreptitiously craned my neck to read the time on his smart watch.

6:53. He wasn’t coming.

My break was at seven. Except for the holidays, this was quite possibly the first Sunday in months I hadn’t sat down at his table on my break. Tonight there would be no murmured, so tell me about what you’ve been reading. No stories about what shenanigans his students had been getting up to.

6:55. Just gonna call it. He was probably out to dinner with some gorgeous redhead. Or at home cuddling on the couch with said redhead, watching stupid movies and drinking homemade hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles.

I had no claim on him.

No claim other than fifteen minutes of my Sunday night. The best fifteen minutes of my week, if I were honest. Though I’d kind of thought…

There had been something happening last week. Something big. Or at least the promise of something big. Our fifteen minutes had felt different. Charged. Electric. Filled with that crackling earthy scent of the earth before a rainstorm, if I were being ridiculous.

But I wasn’t being ridiculous. It had been real. So real.

Tom had almost reached out as I was getting up to go back on shift to take my hand. I hadn’t imagined it.

And I’d felt the specter of the touch that could have been all week long.

Goosebumps broke out on my arms as I remembered, and I pulled my sleeves down over my hands.

Will you be here next week? His voice had been low, almost urgent. Any hint of teasing banter that had come before gone. In its place, sheer, unadulterated need.

He’d never asked before. Always said something benign like, see you next week. Or, if I were really lucky, something like, until next week. When he said that, I could dine all week on the old-fashioned gallantry. It was so easy to imagine him as some kind of historical hero come to life. All broad shoulders and long limbs and whisky-smooth voice that burned as it went down.

I’d hesitated a little. Wobbled a bit on my sensible (read: super ugly) rubber-soled shoes. In that moment, my feet hadn’t hurt. There’d