Chris nowhere in sight.
Choosing the same table I’d worked at yesterday is an easy
decision. Habits, things that feel normal—these are things I crave, just as I
do the coffee I am about to order.
By two o’clock, neither Ava nor Chris have appeared in the
shop. I’ve thirstily downed two White Mochas and switched to black coffee.
There is no denying I am shaky and need food. Waiting to eat in hopes of
sharing lunch with Ava has not paid off. The good news, though, in the hazy
tunnel that is my caffeinated high, is that my knowledge of the featured wines
for the tasting Friday night is rapidly expanding.
The kid from behind the counter approaches my table and
refills my coffee without me asking and grins. “Mr. Compton says to keep your
cup full.”
Right. Mr. Compton says. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a
“thank you”, but I am uneasy with my new boss having my drinks monitored. It is
as if he is trying to…hmm what? The answer comes to me immediately. Control
me . A variety of emotions flash inside me and slowly expand. There is
something very sexy about a man like Mark Compton in control, but sexy or not,
it’s also quite uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons I’ve found better left
under the rug.
Comfortable is overrated, a voice in the back of my
head screams and I know that inner voice is my subconscious mind demanding to
finally be heard. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent every day since
college graduation wallowing in boring predictability. Except when you were
with Michael. I grind my teeth. Predictable is far better than what I was
with him.
I remind myself there are ways out of predictable ruts that
do not include men like Michael…or Mark. Right. Other ways. It had taken me
reading someone else’s words, stepping into their life, to find excitement. How
sad am I? I squeeze my eyes shut and reprimand myself. This is not her life.
It’s yours.
Resolve forms. I am determined to get to work, to make today
count toward a new career. I force my eyes open and reach for my book,
effectively knocking the coffee from the table. Fabulous . Just fabulous .
Coffee is on my table, the floor, and yes, my only pair of good black heels
that match my staple black skirt. My cheeks are no doubt, as rosy as my silk
blouse.
I snatch up the few napkins I have beside me and wipe the
table to salvage my computer before it becomes a victim of my shaky hands. Task
complete, I squat to attend my dripping wet shoe and the floor.
“Looks like you need these.”
The familiar voice tingles along my nerve endings and blood
rushes to my cheeks. No. Please. Do not let this be happening. He squats in
front of me, and my gaze locks on his powerful thighs where his hands rest.
Strong, artistic hands that are holding napkins for my spill. Slowly, my gaze
lifts to find a set of alluringly green eyes belonging to Chris Merit staring
into mine. Once again, this famous, gorgeous man is squatting on the ground in
an effort to help me recover from a mishap.
“You have the most amazing knack for showing up to witness
my acts of clumsiness,” I accuse.
His lips curve and his green eyes twinkle with specks of
yellow. No. More like light flecks of gold shimmer. “I prefer to think of it as
a knack for coming to your rescue,” he declares huskily and winks, before he
proceeds to wipe up my mess. Oh good God. I’ve made Chris Merit my janitor.
And, he winked at me. I can barely breathe.
He stands up and heads to the trash, moving with a confident
male grace that is momentarily spellbinding. I’m frozen in place. I can only
stare at him in wonder. Which, I realize, snapping to my senses, is not a good
thing when I am in a skirt and squatting on the ground.
I pop to my feet and then have to lift my foot and swipe a
remaining wet spot off my shoe. I’ve just dropped the used napkins inside the
empty cup when he returns and stands by my table. Close to me. Really close. A
spicy, wonderful scent teases my
Choosing the same table I’d worked at yesterday is an easy
decision. Habits, things that feel normal—these are things I crave, just as I
do the coffee I am about to order.
By two o’clock, neither Ava nor Chris have appeared in the
shop. I’ve thirstily downed two White Mochas and switched to black coffee.
There is no denying I am shaky and need food. Waiting to eat in hopes of
sharing lunch with Ava has not paid off. The good news, though, in the hazy
tunnel that is my caffeinated high, is that my knowledge of the featured wines
for the tasting Friday night is rapidly expanding.
The kid from behind the counter approaches my table and
refills my coffee without me asking and grins. “Mr. Compton says to keep your
cup full.”
Right. Mr. Compton says. I manage a tight-lipped smile and a
“thank you”, but I am uneasy with my new boss having my drinks monitored. It is
as if he is trying to…hmm what? The answer comes to me immediately. Control
me . A variety of emotions flash inside me and slowly expand. There is
something very sexy about a man like Mark Compton in control, but sexy or not,
it’s also quite uncomfortable for all kinds of reasons I’ve found better left
under the rug.
Comfortable is overrated, a voice in the back of my
head screams and I know that inner voice is my subconscious mind demanding to
finally be heard. The truth of the matter is, I’ve spent every day since
college graduation wallowing in boring predictability. Except when you were
with Michael. I grind my teeth. Predictable is far better than what I was
with him.
I remind myself there are ways out of predictable ruts that
do not include men like Michael…or Mark. Right. Other ways. It had taken me
reading someone else’s words, stepping into their life, to find excitement. How
sad am I? I squeeze my eyes shut and reprimand myself. This is not her life.
It’s yours.
Resolve forms. I am determined to get to work, to make today
count toward a new career. I force my eyes open and reach for my book,
effectively knocking the coffee from the table. Fabulous . Just fabulous .
Coffee is on my table, the floor, and yes, my only pair of good black heels
that match my staple black skirt. My cheeks are no doubt, as rosy as my silk
blouse.
I snatch up the few napkins I have beside me and wipe the
table to salvage my computer before it becomes a victim of my shaky hands. Task
complete, I squat to attend my dripping wet shoe and the floor.
“Looks like you need these.”
The familiar voice tingles along my nerve endings and blood
rushes to my cheeks. No. Please. Do not let this be happening. He squats in
front of me, and my gaze locks on his powerful thighs where his hands rest.
Strong, artistic hands that are holding napkins for my spill. Slowly, my gaze
lifts to find a set of alluringly green eyes belonging to Chris Merit staring
into mine. Once again, this famous, gorgeous man is squatting on the ground in
an effort to help me recover from a mishap.
“You have the most amazing knack for showing up to witness
my acts of clumsiness,” I accuse.
His lips curve and his green eyes twinkle with specks of
yellow. No. More like light flecks of gold shimmer. “I prefer to think of it as
a knack for coming to your rescue,” he declares huskily and winks, before he
proceeds to wipe up my mess. Oh good God. I’ve made Chris Merit my janitor.
And, he winked at me. I can barely breathe.
He stands up and heads to the trash, moving with a confident
male grace that is momentarily spellbinding. I’m frozen in place. I can only
stare at him in wonder. Which, I realize, snapping to my senses, is not a good
thing when I am in a skirt and squatting on the ground.
I pop to my feet and then have to lift my foot and swipe a
remaining wet spot off my shoe. I’ve just dropped the used napkins inside the
empty cup when he returns and stands by my table. Close to me. Really close. A
spicy, wonderful scent teases my
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