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four
Anne
I'mon my way home, furiously typing on my phone, jotting down ideas that have popped into my head throughout the day, when I suddenly smack into something solid.
"I'm sorry," an apology is already on my lips before I ever look up.
A deep chuckle and a, "No, I'm sorry," draws my eyes up over a broad, heavily muscled chest, a thick neck corded with muscle, a strong, lightly stubbled jawline, a smiling mouth surrounded by lush lips, and straight into stormy gray eyes that are crinkled around the edges with obvious humor.
I clutch my phone tighter in my first as I stumble, more from the shock of the gorgeous man before me than from the collision of our bodies.
Collision of our bodies.God, that's a good line. I have to remember to jot that down in my notes to use in a future book.
He reaches out a strong hand to steady me with a firm grip of my elbow.
I'm blushing like the inexperienced virgin that I am at his touch. Sparks sizzle along my skin where his bare flesh meets mine, and I smile nervously up at him. "It was totally my fault. I shouldn't have been texting and walking."
"Not quite as deadly as texting and driving," he flashes me a full smile, and my breath catches at the beauty of it. The man is a Grecian god. Actually, that's not right. He's too dark for that. He's more like a sexy demon because he invokes thoughts of nothing but sin. Like seriously, with that dark lock of hair that wants to fall forward onto his forehead, those smoky gray eyes, and his ripped build, he could be the model on the cover of many of my romance novels.
I somehow manage to stop gawking at him long enough to clear my throat and say, "Still, I'm a sidewalk hazard."
He chuckles again, and my eyes don't know where to look—at the rise and fall of his chest, his crinkled eyes, or that sinful mouth.
"Really, though," he says, "I'm the one who ran into you. Why don't you let me make it up to you over a cup of coffee? I know this amazing little place over on fifth…" he trails off, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
My mouth falls open as I state the name of the place.
He looks taken aback. "You know it?"
I laugh. "Of course! It's my favorite coffee shop in the whole city!"
"What a coincidence," he smiles again.
"Indeed," I agree.
"Well, what do you say…?" he pauses again, obviously prompting me for both my name and answer.
I bite my lip as I consider. I see his eyes hone in on the movement, and it's probably just my imagination, but I think I see them darken for a moment.
I blink, and the look is gone, though.
I'm obviously writing too many romance novels.
I chew my lip for another few seconds. This is crazy, right? Having coffee with this guy I just met?
It's like…like…
Something out of one of your romance novels, a little voice whispers in my head.
"Come on," he coaxes teasingly, "I hear they've got the best toffee nut latte in town."
My mouth falls open again. "How did you know that's my favorite drink there?"
He just shrugs. "It's my favorite drink, and you look like you have good taste."
That elicits a laugh from me. My inner me is hissing, If you don't go with him, we'll make your life a living hell from here on out. Come on, girl! He's perfect! Drop dead gorgeous, kind, funny, and he loves your favorite coffee shop too. You'd be an idiot not to jump at this chance.
For once, I don't tamp down that inner voice with the sensible one that's been drilled into my head by society.
Instead, I place my hand in his outstretched one. "Anne. My name is Anne, and sure. I'd love to grab a cup of coffee with you."
His smile widens as his hand tightens around my own. Something like victory sparks in his eyes, but again, it's gone almost as soon as it appears, replaced with smiling warmth.
"Zane," he offers me his own name before he begins leading me down the sidewalk to our favorite coffee shop.
Maybe instead of writing everyone else's romance story, it's time to finally write my own.
