Deeper (The Deeper Chronicles #1) by Allyn Lesley Page A

she ordered the salted caramel crêpe for herself and two cups of hot chocolate for the table. When they were by themselves, Avi was quick to ask, “What did you mean by stronger?” Her friend always had a drink too close for her liking.
    A cool breeze played with her hair since Avi’s back was to the door. She waited for an answer from her friend, but Sofie was too caught up with what was going on at the restaurant’s entrance.
    “Shit.” Sofie lowered herself into her seat. The whispered curse was laced with embarrassment.
    Avi turned around as Joe shook the hand of a dark-haired man with small eyes and a nose ring. His hair was in one of those man-bun styles made popular by an actor who Avi secretly crushed after. The two men spoke before the trim-built man turned his head in their direction.
    “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
    You couldn’t forget a man with those high cheekbones or deep chocolate eyes. You most certainly didn’t want to be caught in a dark alley with him either. He strolled over, exuding grace and a whole lot of danger.
    “Sofie?” Avi whispered from the side of her mouth.
    “You’re slumming it in my neck of the woods now?” he asked, his attention on Sofie. The scar under his left eye became prominent when he grinned.
    Her usually snappy friend reddened like a schoolgirl under the man’s intense gaze.
    “Hi, I’m Avi,” she said, extending her hand.
    He grasped it, her palm grazing over his roughened one. “I’m Gavin. I work with,” he tipped his head at Sofie, “her uncle and Noah.”
    At that name, Avi pulled her hand away, becoming hot all of a sudden. Then, she shrank down in her seat as her friend had moments ago.
    He laughed. “Mind if I sit?” Obviously, it was a rhetorical question, because he’d already snatched a chair from a nearby table, swinging his limber leg over the seat. He leaned toward them over the back of the chair. “My morning just started looking up.”
    Avi swore that Sofie mumbled, “I’m going to so need a drink now.”
     

     
    “Why the hell do they have to throw the cans in the middle of the street?” Harry muttered to himself. He parked his Oldsmobile with a grimace.
    Coming home from a long shift, Harry wanted to dive into some leftovers and take in a few John Wayne movies while he sat—snored was most likely what would happen—in his La-Z-Boy. But all that would have to wait so he could gather his trash cans that the sanitation workers had haphazardly thrown to the ground during their collection yesterday while he was at work.
    “I should call 311 on their asses,” he grumbled. New York City’s residents used the number for non-emergency complaints like damaged trees, water leaks, and much more.
    “Afternoon, Mr. Manning,” Paul shouted out from Harry’s neighbor’s front steps.
    The two met on the sidewalk. Paul, the neighborhood letter carrier for a good number of years, and Harry had developed a decent relationship. On days when Harry was home, he was sure to pass the aging man either a bottle of water on blistering hot days, or a cup of hot coffee when Brooklyn’s temperature was bitter cold.
    “What do you have for me today? If you’ve got bills there, you can keep those.” Harry grinned.
    Paul belly-laughed. “No, thanks. I’ve got enough of my own.” He pulled a bundle from his arm, which Harry took. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday.”
    Harry took his time walking up his steps then unlocking his door. He shuffled through the packet as he walked farther into his home.
    Bills. That’s for later.
    TV Guide. I’ll need that in a few.
    His hand landed on a large package with ‘AARP Welcomes You’ splashed across it. He groaned, suddenly feeling every bit of his fifty years.
    His feet stopped in their place. A simple white envelope scrawled in a script that would be forever etched in Harry’s memory. With haste, he slid his index finger under the glued edge of the envelope. He whisked out the single sheet of lined paper. His