A year-long relationship and he’d left without even sending a text.
If not for my job at LeFranc, and my close friends rallying around me, I might have left New York altogether, but I couldn’t have run home even if I’d wanted to. Home was where Alex had gone. If I had tucked tail and gone to Charleston, it would have looked like I was running to him.
Alexander Ellison Randall III had eased into my life with the grace you might expect from someone named like they belonged in the pages of a Civil War-era romance novel. We’d met at a fancy party on the Upper East Side where anyone who was anyone in fashion was in attendance. From the cultured southern accent that made me feel homesick and at home all at the same time, to his stories of spending his summers in New York with his stepfather, the legendary Alicio LeFranc who I’d idolized since childhood, it hadn’t taken me more than a minute to fall for him.
I couldn’t stand there gripping the Java Jean’s counter forever.
I had to face him. Unless I wanted to vault over the cash register and belly crawl my way to the backroom. And there was no way my guipure lace was belly crawling anywhere. Taking one last breath, and willing my nerves to calm, I turned around.
We made eye contact. At once, I was grateful I’d heard him come in, that I’d at least had a few seconds to prepare. I’d clearly caught him by surprise; the shock of the moment was written all over his face. He froze, his jaw hanging open, and his cell phone, once secure in his hand, clattered to the tile floor at his feet.
He scrambled to pick up his phone, wiping it on his sleeve before quickly dropping it into the inside pocket of his suit coat. And oh, what a suit. The color was good. Blue, not too bright, just bold enough to give him an edge over the more conservative grays and blacks. The fabric was expensive, the tailoring impeccable. His tie was great. Silk. Purple. And his shoes? Sweet tea and cornflakes. Medallion toe oxfords in a rich brown leather I immediately wished I could touch. I’d forgotten how good he made clothes look.
“Hi,” I managed to say.
For all the scrambling I’d witnessed seconds before, he recovered quickly and was suddenly as poised and polished as ever. “Hey, Dani,” he said, the words smooth and soft. “It’s great to see you.”
I admired and hated him in the same second for having such control over his emotions.
I closed my eyes and swallowed. Not many people made Southern sound as good as he did.
“What are you doing here?” I realized as soon as the words left my mouth how filled with hurt they sounded and I hated myself for being so transparent.
He dropped his eyes and I winced. He’d picked up on it too.
“Work,” he said. “I’m just here for a few days.”
“Work,” I repeated, curious about what that actually meant. Accounting work? Something different?
He’d been an accountant at LeFranc right up until the week we’d broken up, the same week he’d left the city altogether. Office gossip was that he’d been fired after a disagreement with his stepfather. I believed the disagreement part—Alex hadn’t been happy at LeFranc for a while—but my guess was that he’d left willingly, on his own terms.
Alexander Randall was not the kind of man who got fired.
A few weeks after he’d left, Isaac had texted me and told me he’d hired Alex to help him with his taxes and some other business stuff. He and Alex had met a few times while we’d been dating, and they’d liked each other enough to exchange numbers; Isaac had texted Alex money questions all the time before we’d broken up. Isaac had worried I’d be upset when he’d told me, but I’d mostly pretended not to care. I’d been firmly in the rage stage of my post-break-up grief at the time, when the mere mention of Alex’s name was enough to send me flying into a fit. And it’s not like they were hanging out. Alex was doing his taxes. That only took minutes of interaction.
Alex took a step forward. “How are you?” he asked, his tone so sincere, a spark of anger flared in my chest. He didn’t get to care about me anymore. Not here. Not now.
“Here are your drinks, Dani,” Chloe said softly behind me. I gave her a brief nod and mouthed a silent thank you.
I looked back at Alex and shrugged. “I’m fine,” I said. “The same, really.”
He nodded. “That’s good to hear.”
We stood there, the air between us so full of awkward and uncomfortable, I half-expected everyone else in the coffee shop to get up and walk out just to save themselves. When Alex didn’t say anything else, I picked up the drinks Chloe had left for me and started for the door. I held them up as I walked past, evidence presented before a judge. “I should get these to the office.”
“Of course.” Alex stepped to the side, but then he called after me. “Dani, wait.”
I turned around.
“I feel like we should . . . talk.”
Talk. Now he wanted to talk? A full year of silence and he suddenly decided he wanted to work it all out in the doorway of Java Jean’s? I almost laughed. “We should have talked a year ago.”
He closed his eyes. “I know. You’re right about that. I’m sorry—”
“Alex, stop.” I cut him off. “Just stop. I can’t do this here.”
His jaw was tight, his brow creased, but he nodded his understanding. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
Countless times I’d imagined what I would say to Alex if I ever saw him again. In my mind, I was always witty and clever, my insults perfectly crafted to hit him where they’d make the biggest impact, like sharpened razors homing in on the tenderest flesh. But now that we actually stood face to face, my words were dried up. All I really wanted to do was cry. Since crying in front of him was not going to happen, I did the next best thing.
I fled.
“I gotta go,” I said. I turned and blindly pushed toward the coffee shop’s front door, with little heed to anything—or anyone—in my way. Until the someone in my way crashed into me, upending four of the six coffees I carried, splashing them all over the front of my dress. I stood there in shock, coffee dripping off the ends of my hair, soaking all the way through to my skin. It was even pooling up in my shoes.
“Watch where you’re going, lady,” a gruff voice said. I had half a nerve to punch the guy. I was the one covered in coffee, not him.
Of course, it only took a second for Alex to reach me. He pulled the two surviving cups out of my hands and set them on the table beside us. “Are you okay?”
I sniffed. “A little damp, but undamaged, I think.”
“You’re not burned, are you?”
The coffee was hot, but not so hot that I felt anything more than a temporary sting.
I shook my head, my shock finally giving way to embarrassment. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Can I . . . help at all? Maybe get you a cab to take you home?”
“You know how long cabs take around here. I don’t have time to go home, but it’s fine. I’ll figure something out.”
Chloe appeared beside us, a mop and bucket in hand. She handed me a stack of napkins. “I’m so sorry, Dani,” she said. “I can remake the drinks you lost.”
There wasn’t much that sounded worse than standing next to Alex, coffee dripping in between my breasts and into my belly button, long enough for Chloe to make another round of drinks. I looked at the surviving coffee cups, noting that one of the two was Sasha’s macchiato. “It’s really fine,” I said. I used the napkins to wipe off my hands and arms then tossed them into the trash can by the door before grabbing the remaining drinks from the table. “You can owe me next time.”
With that, I pushed through the door, the heat of the late August morning matching the fire that filled my cheeks and burned in my chest. I thought I heard Alex call my name as I crossed the sidewalk and rounded the corner. But this time, it was me who didn’t look back.
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(Not So) Alone for Christmas: A Sweet Romantic Comedy Holiday Novella Page 10