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“Here,” the coffee man's voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look to see him taking off his suit jacket and passing it to me, draping it across my shoulders, so I swiftly pull it on. I am instantly overwhelmed with his scent, sandalwood and musk, along with hints of liquor and cigar smoke. I’m swimming in it, but I do up the buttons and roll up the sleeves. I must say, with my jeans, it actually makes me look well put together. Casual chic. I make a mental note to scour the thrift store for a black blazer next time I am there.
“Thank you,” I say softly as I step back from him farther, embarrassed because by the feel of it, I am positive that the suit jacket cost a small fortune; more than my entire wardrobe I would guess. I am hesitant to wear it, not wanting to ruin it with my coffee stain. I can’t afford to pay for the repair, or heaven forbid, a new one. The increased medical expenses for gran have been draining my savings these last few weeks, and I am expecting there to be more of them to come.
“I will get it back to you, where can I send it?” I ask tentatively, because I have never been in this situation before where a man offers his coat, and since I don’t want to walk around for the rest of the morning with my breasts showing, I’ll have to keep wearing it. I need to finish my shopping and pick up a few things from the Boston Public Market at Seaport Common. I don’t want to go straight back home. This is the first weekend where I have a few hours to myself and going to the market is my guilty pleasure. I need it today.
“My business card is in the pocket, just have it delivered to the address on the card when you are ready,” he responds, interrupting my thoughts, and I feel heat prick my cheeks again as we look into each other's eyes.
“Okay, thanks. I need to go. Thank you for the jacket,” I say quietly, getting shyer by the minute. I turn and begin to walk away when he stops me.
“Wait!” he shouts, and I stop and turn back to face him. “What’s your name?’
“Molly,” I say with a small smile.
“Molly,” he repeats like he is seeing if he likes the sound it makes.
“See you soon, Molly.” He grins, which is contagious, so I return one of my own before I quickly to make my way to the market, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk looking after me.
Walking as fast as I can, I make it to the market in record time, my heart still pumping from my encounter with the coffee guy, and I realize that he asked for my name, but I never got his. I feel around in the pocket of the jacket to grab his business card but come up empty-handed; his pockets are bare.
Why didn’t I ask him for his name?! If I don’t find him and return his jacket, is that theft? Could he charge me with theft? And how rude of me not to ask his name, he must think I am such an idiot. I don’t have a lot of experience with men, and I showed that this morning.
Strolling through the market stalls, I stop occasionally, grabbing what I need, but my mind is no longer on the shopping, but back on the coffee guy. He didn’t appear to be drunk, but yet smelled of whisky. He didn’t look trashed, maybe a little tired, but still very handsome.
I look down at myself and cringe. I ran out of the house so fast this morning that I didn’t put a lot of effort into my appearance. I’m just wearing my jeans and top, which is now ruined, and no makeup with my long hair in a top knot. Just my luck to literally run into a handsome man and look terrible. Something tells me that he is a man used to being with supermodels and more refined women, not someone as basic and normal as me. I am just Molly. Social worker, simple young woman who still lives with her gran.
No, any romantic notion I have of handsome coffee guy needs to be erased from my thoughts because he is definitely not a good match for me. Which brings my thoughts to Byron, one of the medical volunteers at work who is good-looking, smart, and funny. I have run into him a few times now and I think he was going to ask me out when we last spoke, but we got interrupted by some of the kids when the moment passed, then it never happened. Probably for the best, I have too much on my plate with work and gran; dating is not something I have ever prioritized and dating someone at work is only asking for trouble.
***
3
STEPHEN
Molly. She got my attention - sexy, beautiful eyes, a fantastic smile, and fucking adorable, all rolled into one very neat, tiny package. I watch her go, even though my jacket is too big for her, she is wearing it well, and it looks better on her than it does on me. I want to run after her, but my feet are rooted to the sidewalk as I stare at her, appearing like a stalker, but I’m totally captivated.
Wow, her eyes, they are something. Big, brown, and they had so much depth to them; I could get lost in her eyes forever. Not to mention, her perfect breasts encased in that lacy bra for the world to see, thanks to her t-shirt capturing most of my morning coffee. But I don’t need the coffee anymore, she has woken me up quicker than any strong black coffee could.
The two remaining club guests who were sneaking out the front with me are teetering on the sidewalk, so I get them a car and ensure they are safely on their way before my driver pulls up in my black escalade and I start my journey home. The bright rays of the morning sun pierce my eyes, and I go to pat my jacket to find my sunglasses before realizing that I left them in my office and I gave my jacket to Molly. I sigh; it’s been a long night, but I feel lighter after my literal run-in with her. As the car weaves its way through the city to my place, my thoughts continue to gravitate to the woman I just met on the sidewalk, and I wonder where she was going.
Chris, my driver, arrives at my apartment building and pulls up to the front door where we are greeted by Ronald, the doorman. Ronald is a middle-aged man, who is full of energy and provides supreme service and confidentiality. Shaun and Scarlett own this building and have all the staff on payroll, so everyone is of the highest caliber. Wearing his tailored uniform, he opens my car door for me and smiles. “Morning, Stephen, good night at the club last night?”
“Brilliant as usual, Ronald.” I nod to him and shake his hand in greeting before I walk through the double glass doors and into the shiny marble lobby to my private elevator which is hidden at the side. Only Shaun, Scarlett, and I use this elevator. They live on the top floor and my apartment is just below theirs. Everyone else who resides in the building uses the main elevators located in the center of the lobby near the concierge desk.
Once inside my apartment, I don’t waste any time, going straight to the bathroom to run the shower. After twelve hours of being in my suit at the club, I smell all sorts of bad. Add the wet mess of coffee stain down my front and I feel like I need to bathe for a day just to get rid of the sticky feeling. I stand under the flow of water, thankful for the amazing rain shower that is in my bathroom, because there is no better feeling after a long night at work than having the water pound away the worries I accumulate. I hang my head, thinking about the few days I need to spend in New York this week.
I have plans to extend the New York club, developing a rooftop bar which will take in the city sights now that summer is approaching. Trying to keep it to code and to budget is proving challenging. There are always permits and paperwork that need my attention. I also know that things move quickly in New York, so I need to ensure that I strategically plan the opening. Any delays or hiccups could be detrimental to the publicity we get and have a negative effect on the business. Getting the timing just right is the only way I can open it with a bang.
I switch off the taps and grab a fluffy white towel, grateful for my housekeeper Mary who looks after all my basic needs. Mary does everything and I never want her to leave me. If it was left to me then I would never have clean clothes and I would survive purely on takeaway food. Although I am a good cook and enjoy cooking, I haven’t done it for a long time since the nightclubs keep me too busy, and the hours I work don’t help. After drying myself, I put on my white Henley top and jeans, then walk barefoot to the kitchen to reheat whatever masterpiece Mary has cooked and put in the fridge for me.
As I sit at the kitchen bench to eat, I am unsettled by the quiet. Usually, I love it. My morning routine consists of my shower, then I eat and go to bed for a few hours before waking in the afternoon and starting my day again. But today it feels too quiet, like I am missing something. I look around my place and feel empty. I don’t like feeling this way. I am usually in control. I am like an energizer bunny finishing one thing, then onto the next. The room holds no warmth. I don’t have photos adorning the walls, or many soft furnishings. It is simple, decorated in greys and blacks with lots of glass. It is a place for me to sleep and eat before I go back out the door. For the first time, it feels scarce.
As I finish my meal and clean the kitchen, my phone rings; it’s Scarlett.
“Stephen, how are you?”
“Fine, Scar, I just go in, how are you doing?”
“If you are home, Shaun, I want to come and talk to you for a minute?”
