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CHAPTER 3
ROCHELLE
Ifeel sluggish today. I didn’t sleep well last night. Sometimes the full moon keeps me from sleeping deeply. And I dreamed—about a man I have to believe is the one meant for me. He was dark-haired and laughing, teasing and sexy, his dark eyes full of secrets and love, and I woke all dreamy and mazed, as if I’d been having orgasms in my sleep.
I slip on my scrubs, brush my hair and put it back in a clip, then grab a frozen breakfast burrito and nuke it while I slick on a little moisturizer and mascara. I feed Bing and Dido their dry food and fondle their ears. While they chow down, I eat standing at the counter, still feeling logy and slow. Coffee helps, but not enough, and I don’t have time to make another cup or go by one of the three good coffee shops downtown before I’m due at work.
I brush my teeth, stick my feet in my clogs, and grab my purse before I jump into the elevator, which is crowded.
When we get to the ground floor, some idiot in shiny caramel-brown shoes and a windowpane-plaid shirt tries to let all the women in the elevator go out before him even though he’s closest to the door, and he slops coffee all over me.
It’s hot.
I’m not burned badly, but my scrubs are wet and I’m late already. I could scream with frustration.
He apologizes, then apologizes again, and apparently wants to keep apologizing, the doofus. I’m too mad to look at him. Instead, I point at the lobby and firmly push the DOOR CLOSE button just to get him out of my sight. I mutter and bitch to myself all the way up to my floor, then rip my clothes off and change into a dry bra and another set of scrubs, still snarling things like “fucking idiot” and “brain-dead dudebro” under my breath. Once redressed, I cuddle Dido for a moment and scratch Bing behind the ears for a moment of peace before heading out yet again.
In the elevator, I text Pam, the office manager, that I had a wardrobe malfunction and will be a few minutes late. As the elevator doors open, I take a deep breath and charge out into the lobby—only to be confronted with him. The coffee-spilling dudebro. Who, now that I’m looking at him head-on, I can see is ridiculously handsome.
Fuck my life.
I attempt to walk past him, but that doesn’t shake him loose.
“I’m really sorry,” he says again.
I take a deep breath. “Apology accepted. Next time, just go ahead and get out of the elevator without making all the women go around you. I know it seems chivalrous, but it’s actually just annoying.”
“And leads to spilled coffee,” he agrees, mournfully. He actually looks regretful, not like he’s trying to charm me into anything, and my ire cools a degree or two.
“I’m late for work,” I say, and start past him.
“I can drive you,” he says quickly, taking one step on long legs to catch up with me. “Because it was my fault.”
Damn, this guy doesn’t know when to quit. “I walk to work,” I say, and keep on walking.
“I usually do, too,” he says. “I mean, not usually. Not yet. Yesterday was my first day. But I work close by, which is why I took this apartment.”
We wind up walking down Church Street together, even though I’m hustling and trying to lose him. God, is this idiot some kind of stalker or something? Somehow, though, he’s right beside me, not even breathing hard to keep up on those long legs of his. Somehow, we’re in step.
My phone dings with a text message, and I step over to the front of Book No Further, out of the stream of walking traffic, to read it. Long-legged, Persistent, Coffee-spilling Dude stops, too. “You don’t have to escort me to work,” I say acidly. “In fact, please don’t.”
I’m distracted, looking up at him, because he’s damn cute. He has a lovely, kissable-looking mouth, only a few inches higher than mine. If I leaned just a little bit, our lips might lock together like magnets. The second that thought pops up, I shake it right out of my head. Am I nuts?
“I’m sorry,” he says for the millionth time. “I just want to make it up to you.”
I read the message from my office manager; it says not to worry, she’ll get my equipment set up for me and I can just take a short lunch if necessary. When I look up, he’s still there. “Look, dude,” I say.
“Alaric,” he says. “Alaric Ambrose.”
I blink. I’ve never heard such a fantasy-hero name in real life. Maybe he made it up.
Wait, this couldn’t be the true love I petitioned the Goddess for, could it?
Anyway, I have something to say. “Look, Alaric, if a woman tells you to back off, you should back off. You apologized. We’re all done here.”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh. Okay. I don’t…I don’t always read cues well. Sorry. I’ll leave you alone, then.” His eyes look pink around the edges, and he seems just crushed.
He steps backward without checking for pedestrians, and bumps right into a man in a suit, making him drop his laptop bag. “Shit, I’m sorry,” Alaric the Idiot says, and hands the poor guy his bag before he can bend to pick it up. “Wasn’t looking.”
