Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(5)

Lynsey perches on the edge of my coffee table in front of me. “Can we stop dancing around what’s really going on here?”

“Watch your hiney, Lyns, that’s luxury reclaimed barnwood that Mercedes Lee Loveletter afforded me.”

“Stop changing the subject. This is about your ex who happens to still live with you.” She points up the stairs to the master suite I shared with Dryston Roberts for the better part of the past two years before everything went to shit.

I scoff at that notion. “We’re playing a game of chicken right now, and there’s no way I’m letting that small-minded fucker take this house.”

“Even though you can’t even write in it? You want to fight for the house with no ‘vibe’?” she quips.

“That’s irrelevant,” I exclaim and ball my hands up into tight fists. Every time I talk about Dryston, my hands end up like this.

We met two years ago at a pool party, and I fell for his suave moves. It took me way too long to see that he had Peter Pan Syndrome written all over him.

Unfortunately, leasing this townhouse for three years was the one grown-up thing we did together, and now, it’s a disaster. Living for three months in the same house as your ex-boyfriend, a perpetual frat boy who will never mature, is about as bad as you can imagine.

The only silver lining in this situation is that he’s away for the summer. Thank God.

“There’s no way in hell I’m moving out,” I grind through clenched teeth and swing my eyes to Lynsey in accusation. “I live next door to my best friend! You don’t want me to move, do you?”

She rolls her eyes. “No.”

“Exactly. So that’s that. He’s a spoiled brat who has always gotten what he wants but not this time. He’s summering in the Hamptons, for God’s sake, so he can afford his own place. I’m staying put.”

“It’s like a Mexican standoff with you two…I can’t even!” Lynsey growls and runs her hands through her hair. “You enjoy living with your ex for the next year. See how that works out.”

“I’m perfectly happy living down here. This bedroom is actually bigger.” Never mind the fact that the upstairs room has the best views of the mountains. That room is tainted anyway. It reeks of preppy boy cologne and idiocy.

My thoughts are distracted when my eyes land on a familiar logo that I know better than my own for the Mercedes Lee Loveletter brand.

I look up at Lynsey with grave eyes. “It’s a letter from Tire Depot.”

“They’ve figured it out.” She gasps and covers her mouth like we just found out one of our friends is a murderer.

“Stop being so dramatic!” I screech defensively as my fingers squeeze tightly around the envelope. “You don’t know that they figured it out. This could just be like…junk mail or something. Maybe they’re offering a special on oil changes next week?”

“Have they ever mailed you anything like that before?”

“No!” I bellow as the realization sinks in and dread washes over me. I look at Lynsey with wide, fearful eyes. “What if this is it?”

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“What if this is the moment I’ve feared all along? They might be taking my mojo away!”

“You don’t know that,” Lynsey defends. Clearly, we both process feelings differently because now we’ve done a one-eighty, and she’s coming up with excuses while I’m circling the drain of despair.

“They would have no other reason to send me a letter!” I shriek and inhale a shaky breath. “Damnit,” I growl and tear into the envelope to make my death swift.

I unfold the letter that’s printed on the Tire Depot letterhead and read aloud. “Dear Ms. Smith, We’ve taken notice of your enjoyment of our customer waiting area. We are very glad that you enjoy spending your days with us. You have, however, exceeded the limit for complimentary refreshments. Per company policy, enclosed you will find an invoice for the refreshments you’ve consumed in excess of the limit.”

“What?” Lynsey screeches. Jesus Christ, we’re both a fucking mess.

“It’s gotta be a prank,” I force out a fake laugh and look at the second page that lists the itemized products that I’ve consumed. Like a shot, I stand, the mail on my lap falling to the floor. “Holy shit! How did they know?”

“Know what?”

“I mean…this invoice has to be bullshit, but this itemized list is scarily accurate.”

“What do you mean?”

I thrust the paper at her and point to each line item. “I probably have drunk fifteen long espressos and thirty caramel almond lattes. That’s like…exactly my jam. I start my days off with a long espresso and then do two lattes in the afternoon.”

“Oh, Kate!” Lynsey gasps. “The calories.”

“But I don’t eat lunch!” I argue.

She nods, seemingly appeased by that reply. “So this is legit?”

“It can’t be,” I argue, but the growing pit in my stomach indicates I’m not fully convinced.

Here’s the thing. I’m not mad at the one hundred and eighty dollar invoice. Charging four dollars for a beverage is cheaper than Starbucks. But I’m livid over the nerve of Tire Depot! What kind of respectable business would charge a person excess consumption of complimentary coffee?