But Atlas just nods, as if the usage of town is correct, and his cold glacier eyes meet mine again.
“What for?” he pries.
To get laid.But I can’t very well say that.
So, instead, I say, “To explore. I haven’t looked around since I got here.”
“Would you like some company?” Atlas stares at me with hopeful, wide eyes.
And underneath the plain interest in going with me, I can see the alternate invitation there. Or, maybe, I imagine it because I want it so desperately. This constant pull I feel toward him is intoxicating and just as terrifying as it is pleasurable.
“Are youallowedto venture off alone with me?” I answer his question with one of my own, and Atlas cracks a small smile.
“I could manage to slip away.”
So, no. He would most definitely get in trouble for going with me. And not only that, but I think having him by my side might ruin my plans. How can I find a fuckbuddy with him trailing behind me?
Even worse than that, how could I find anyone attractive with him in the room, making everyone else appear to be toads?
“Some other time,” I decline. “And please use an umbrella when you go watch the ocean.”
Atlas’s smile shifts into a pouty frown, his full bottom lip jutting out invitingly as his brow furrows.
“Fine,” is all he says, and then he moves past me and toward the door.
I don’t check to see if he grabs an umbrella. I know that if I do and he doesn’t, I’ll end up following him out there with one from the storage room and a lecture to boot.
So instead, I head toward Hall E1, all the way to the delivery room, where I know our truck is parked a few feet outside the door.
I don’t grab an umbrella, as I don’t own one, which means I’m running hurriedly to the truck and diving inside.
It takes about thirty minutes to drive from Chastain Castle to the little port town of Port Orford. When I arrive, I park on the curb outside of a local coffee shop, where I slip inside and order myself an Americano.
I don’t evenlikeAmericanos. I’m just not sure what else to drink, and they don’t have a big menu the way a typical Starbucks would.
There are several older folk mingling around, laughing and chatting away. The singular barista working appears to be around my age, but she wasn’t very interested in holding a conversation while I ordered.
So I sit at a small table by the large window in the front of the café, watching the rain hit the sidewalk outside. Maybe today was a bad day to come out.
But to be fair, it rains very frequently here, so if I waited for clear skies on a Saturday, I might never get my chance.
Right as I’m considering getting back in my truck and risking that wait anyway, I see a small group of people exit a bookstore across the street, huddling under the awning.
They appear to be in their mid-twenties, a mixture of men and women.
What catches my eye, though, is the girl standing at the center of the group. She has long, curly brown hair and a petite body. When her gaze slides over the coffee shop, I can make out wide, blue eyes.
She’s beautiful and most definitely not old.
I jump up from my seat and exit the coffee shop, abandoning my half-drunk coffee. If I head into the bookstore, will it catch her attention?
I hurry across the street, thankful that the awning is wide enough to cover the group already there and me when I tuck underneath it, shaking out my own damp hair.
As I’m reaching for the door of the shop, pretending to be very interested in my venture, a voice rings out.
“Hey there,” he calls, and everyone in their small group turns their attention in my direction.
Score! Plan successful.
