Two oil abstracts and one watercolor later, I saw him sitting alone at the table by the front window. He was inspecting his left hand, pressing on his palm as if testing an old injury, but he wasn’t looking my way at all. Immediately, I felt better. I’d walked right past him and he hadn’t noticed. Surely yesterday’s paranoia was just from lack of sleep and my overactive angel-friends. Too much information had been thrown my way, and I’d had a little psychotic episode trying to process it. Not the first time.
I turned back to the closest wall and pretended to admire a mixed media portrait of Elvis. Once I’d spotted the man, it was hard not to look at him. He was incredibly attractive, and, therein, was the biggest problem. His appearance was literally incredible. As in, beyond the range of natural phenomenon and more like some computer-generated animation of . . . of a . . . I blushed.
My head had filled again with the image of a mostly naked Olympic athlete. This time he was glossed with a Hollywood-perfected sheen of manly sweat, muscles tensed in the pose of a discus thrower . . . and well, okay then. Now he was completely naked in my head, and I was ready to climb over the counter and fix my own damn coffee so I could get the hell out of there before he saw me.
“Here you go, Lila!” Tessa’s voice was too loud for the nearly empty shop. Even Elvis watched with interest as I took my coffee.
“Er, thank you. Thank you very much.” My weak impersonation sounded loud, too. Tessa’s big brown eyes blinked, but her smile didn’t waver. I dug a dollar out of my purse and tipped her a little extra for her self-control.
In an effort to compose myself, I turned to The King again, studying the Krispy Kreme boxes that had been shredded to create his jumpsuit. When I felt ready, I turned to leave—and smacked right into Mr. Olympian. Glorious, even with my latte slopped all over his hard stomach.
After one agonizing second, my brain took charge and compartmentalized my responses. Part of me wondered how the coffee had managed to land only on him while my white shirt remained spotless, and part of me wondered how in the world I’d been unaware he was behind me, because—thanks to my angels—no one ever snuck up on me . . . and a tiny, tiny part of me was fantasizing that he might take his shirt off. Thank goodness my brain was roomy enough for normal reactions, too. Well, relatively normal.
“I’m-so-sorry!” I sputtered as I grabbed a pile of napkins and started swabbing at his shirt. Why am I touching him?! “I didn’t see you! Did I burn you?” Embarrassment flooded my tear ducts and my last words sounded thick.
His large hands swallowed up both of mine—sopping napkins, half-spilled cup and all—and held me still, forcing me to look up into his face. His mouth was stretched into a full, cheek-lifting, eye-squinching smile as if I’d done him the biggest favor in the world by coffee-dyeing a Rorschach blotch onto his baby blue button-down.
“I surprised you!” he announced with satisfaction.
“Congratulations. That’s twice now.” My voice was suddenly clear again, but all wrong. Sarcasm had scorch-dried my tears. Smug bastard. You’re not all that. His palms were uncomfortably hot, and I tried to slide my hands free.
Releasing me, he took the dripping napkins and cup. “Go cleanse. I will wait. Your blouse is pristine, and it would be a shame to sully it.”
I stared up at him, but saw no hint that he was being insincere. Pristine? My blouse is pristine? I grabbed the restroom key from Tessa’s outstretched hand. She was too busy staring at Mr. Olympian to notice—or so I thought. But when I took the key, she looked at me in sympathy. Yes, I’m an idiot. Hadn’t you realized? As I rushed away, I heard her offer him a wet rag.
Luckily, although the restroom door was thin, it offered just enough separation for me to relax and get a grip. I methodically washed my hands, adjusted my hair and clothes, and consulted with my alter ego in the mirror. We took stock of the situation and listed the obvious problems.
Number one, whenever I was near this man my head was a very noisy place. More so than usual. Two, he was too young and pretty for me to be stupid enough to be interested. Three, because of his . . . oddness . . . he both intrigued me and creeped me out. He snuck up on me twice!Which led us to number four . . . where were my angels this morning? I thought back over the past hours and realized I hadn’t sensed them since I’d told them to leave me alone yesterday afternoon. But I’d have to ponder that one later, because number five was the most important. I needed to get to work.
Priorities in order, I was pleased to see my mirrored self looked confident. Image is everything, right? A giggle struggled to break free as I left the bathroom, but when I saw Tessa’s anxious glance, I channeled it into a sheepish grin. Then I realized it was his fault she looked out of sorts. He was standing exactly as I’d left him, complete with a ludicrously rabbit-shaped stain on his shirt, observing his surroundings like a ruler bored with an inconsequential fiefdom.
Ugh. Before my opinion could develop beyond that one unflattering assessment, he noticed me and flashed his straight, white teeth. I approached cautiously, but even his eyes were welcoming. The sterile crystal facets were now a smoky quartz as if clouded with genuine emotion. I was completely baffled and desperately missed my angels. Where were they?
“Well . . . my hands aren’t sticky anymore, but I’m afraid your shirt won’t be such an easy fix. I’d be happy to pay the cleaning bill..?” Damn it. What was I doing?
He gestured away my offer and handed me a fresh coffee. With a lid on it.
“That is not
