Here, people can be their most authentic selves, without apologies. A twinge catches in my chest making my breath stutter. I don’t really know who my most authentic self is anymore.
I thought I knew my most authentic self. I thought—I don’t know what I thought—but finding the piece of paper in my dad’s study telling me that I wasn’t born a Bowen, that I’d been adopted as an infant and my parents hadn’t told me? That shook me to my core.
It still shakes my core. I’ve spent the months since trying to figure out who I really am. I’d love to say that piece of paper didn’t define me, or that it didn’t change a single thing, but it did.
It changed everything.
I no longer know who I am. I tap my card against the machine and smile through the pain shredding my insides. My parents—myadoptiveparents—kept it from me for almost twenty years. I’ve only known for a couple of months. But… How can I not be changed now that I know the truth?
The almost unhappy beep of the machine suggests a problem, and I scowl, wrinkles creasing my forehead. “Can you run it again please?”
Taryn nods and hits a couple buttons before I flap my card against the end of the machine one more time. Heat creeps up my spine and into my extremities. I place my book on the counter—cover up, because there’s no shame in my smut of choice game. I know Taryn loves my hot as hell man-chest-candy covers as much as I do—then my purse.
Shit. If the card is declined again I don’t think I have another way to pay.
I purged my bag last night so it was ready to collect receipts, tubes of Chapstick, and crumbs from food I don’t eat anywhere near my purse. I thought I tossed my coin purse back into my bag, but the sinking feeling in my chest has me wondering if I left it at home.
Checking again, I confirm it. My coin purse is on my nightstand, right next to my charging vibrator and my half-empty glass of water. I close my eyes and send up a prayer. The Big Guy won’t let me down. Right?
The same “transaction denied” sound scrapes my ears and my stomach drops.
I could ask Athena to front me the cash. It’s my turn to buy, but she won’t mind. Being the daughter of a billionaire, I know she has the dough. But I’ve taken pride in being that person—you know, the one who knows who she is but who doesn’t want her for her money, or her family connections, or to get close to her delicious, hockey-playing brothers.
I love her for her. Not her last name.
“It’s okay, I got it.” A deep, velvety voice behind me sends a ripple through my body, sparking my lady bits to life.
Huh. I’d thought after all the months of neglect, apart from the occasional buzz with a battery operated boyfriend, that she’d closed up shop. Yet here she is reacting to a tall, dark, and handsome stranger behind me in line at the coffee shop. He has to be tall, dark, and handsome, right? With a voice like maple syrup, he must be.
A glance at my book cover confirms it—this is my very own meet-cute. Maybe he’s even shirtless already.
Guy saves girl from embarrassment by offering to buy her coffee. A little clichéd, it’s true, but I can totally work with clichéd. Especially if he has a romance-novel-hero sized dick.
I kinda wish I’d shaved my legs this morning. Because of course I’m going from meet-cute to mounting the hottie behind me in zero-point-three seconds.
I spin around, ready to say “I do” and cut right to my happily ever after, and my jaw drops. Sure, he’s tall, blond—not dark—and he’s handsome alright, but he’s also—
“You can insert or tap.” Taryn’s voice barely registers from behind me.
My hand darts out, blocking his card from touching the machine. “It’s fine. I’ll just… I’m sure I have cash in here somewhere.” I jiggle my bag at him like that’ll somehow make him disappear, an alternative method of payment appear, or my vision come into focus, and it won’t be who I think it is, who I know it is, standing in front of me.
Instead, myactualnot-a-douche-canoe knight in shining armor will be here to save me from caffeine withdrawal and a murderous best friend instead.
His brow arches high over his crystal blue eyes as he gives me that lopsided, jock smile that dazzles like a disco ball and makes women’s underwear spontaneously combust. But the acid in my empty stomach bubbles, stomping out any desire I felt when I first heard his voice. Before I realized who it was.
I’d rather saw my arm off than let Justin Ass pay for my breakfast.
I blink. Try to restart my brain, but his blue eyes won’t let go of me, and I don’t move my hand from the card machine. The walls are closing in around us at a snail’s pace, like a slow-motion 80’s montage in a movie, and I’m pretty sure everyone is staring at me, staring at him, waiting for me to say or do something, or even just move.
Taryn clears her throat behind me. “Girl. Sometimes you gotta let the patriarchy pay for your coffee. Call it reparations.” She moves the machine from my grasp and lets Justin tap the end. I’m still staring, mouth gaping, like another brainless idiot who loses the power of speech when a pretty hockey boy looks her way.
I look to the ceiling, to the Big Guy. This isn’t funny. Justin Ashe isn’t my romance novel hero. He’s not my happy ever after.
He’s heartburn after a bad burrito.
He’s always been the pretty boy, ever since high school. But his shoulders have filled out, and his biceps are stretching the navy-blue sweater as though it could burst at the seams like a can of Pillsbury biscuits.
I mumble an apology and a thank you—or at least I hope that’s what came out of my mouth—and move to the side, fixing my eyes on…something…anything that isn’t the man who paid for our drinks. His stare is heavier on my back than caffeine-thirsty Athena’s was, and my cheeks are scorching.
