Page 8 of Sweet Surrender

I don’t want them to be playful or him to be attractive or sexy. Charming. That’s what he is in the most lethal of ways. He’s not my type—so very far from it—and last I checked, I’ve sworn off men for the time being after Fuck You, Paul showed me his true colors.

But he is flirting with me, isn’t he?

Get a grip. Being nice is not the same thing as flirting. Clearly, I need an ego boost if I’m thinking some tattooed hottie in the coffee shop is flirting with me when all he did was bring me something I dropped and tell me my name is fitting.

“You’re overthinking,” he asserts.

“And you’re presumptive and—”

“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But regardless of what you say, I know a woman who wants me when I see one.”

Jesus. Good thing I wasn’t taking a sip of my coffee or I’d have just spit it out. “Did you really just say that?”

His eyes light up. “I did.”

“Leave it to a man to think he’s the center of every woman’s world.” I shake my head and take a seat to facilitate this conversation being over. “I take back my apology. You do, in fact, need to find more dignity.”

He purses his lips and nods as if the hint to leave me alone has been heard but then taps his finger on the table beside my iced coffee. “For what it’s worth, Hendrix, he sounds like an asshole.”

“Who does?” My eyes meet his, yet my mind’s still repeating the way my name sounds rolling off his tongue.

“Whoever you were talking to on the phone. The man who made you swear off men, I presume.” He holds his hands up. “Unsolicited opinion and all.”

“You know what they say about opinions.” I lift my eyebrows as if they’re finishing the old adage for me.

“I do. Funny how willing you were to give yours though, so what does that say about you?”

“Touché. And warranted. Like I said, it’s been quite the . . . month. Thanks for giving me back the card I dropped. I appreciate it.”

“Are you blowing me off?”

“I am. Yes.” I smile. “Clearly, it’s something you’ve never had happen before, but unlike the rest of them, I have self-respect.”

“Glad we established that fact.” He gives a definitive nod but there’s something about him, that even when he’s getting a dig in, I still find myself wanting to like him.

“Me too,” I say and take a deliberately long sip on my straw to signal to him that once again, this conversation is over.

What I don’t expect is for him to lean down close to my ear and murmur, “For the record, all men aren’t cheating assholes.” Chills chase over my skin as he pauses. “Some, in fact, are good guys.”

“And are you one, Jase?” I ask without thinking.

He leans back so that our eyes meet. The warmth of his breath flutters over my cheek as my own stutters. There’s an intensity in his eyes that I didn’t expect and a weird want to understand it.

“Depends on the day.” As he takes a step back, that grin returns full force. It screams mischief and desire all in one tantalizing and confusing turn up of his lips. And then he walks away, throwing, “Later, Cookie Cutter,” over his shoulder as he goes.

I stare after him. I’d like to think it’s unknowingly but it’s not. I’m no better than the other women and girls in this place whose eyes are glued to him as he walks out the door and onto the street.

He looks both ways for a beat before heading to the left and out of sight.

But I keep staring at the glass storefront and the passersby.

And I keep wondering why my interaction with him feels like it’s been the best part of my day—no, week—when he’s just some random guy in Josie’s who’s pretending to be someone he isn’t.

He’s handsome. I’ll definitely give him that.

But he’s so not my type. Not the tattoos nor the combat boots. Not the cocky smirk nor the self-assurance. Not his effortless charm nor the way he finds it amusing that women think he’s someone different. Not anything and yet all of those things keep me looking after where he just was.

It’s Paul’s fault. Has to be.