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“Hey,” I say when I get up to the counter.
Fiona looks up, her lips curling. “Georgia!” She says my name like she’s really happy to see me, and it makes my heart go all gooey. When was the last time someone genuinely smiled at the sight of me?
“Can I grab a latte with one sugar for me, and, um…” I trail off, chewing my lip. Fiona arches her brows until I huff and finally say, “What does Sebastian usually get?”
As if they have a special radar dedicated to juicy gossip, Simone and Candice pop up beside me like twin meerkats. “Did you say Sebastian?” Simone asks. “Are you buying him a coffee? Did you call him after we left and have hot monkey sex?” She glances out the café windows. “Is he here?”
The teen girl behind the counter stares at Simone with wide eyes, then looks at me—then glances out the window.
“Oh, quiet,” I hiss. “Please. He’s not here. I went to bed after you all left.Alone.”
“He usually gets a large black coffee,” Fiona informs me, giddiness bursting from every pore. She nudges the girl behind the cash register. “You remember how to ring in a black coffee, Alicia?”
The girl, who’s wearing the same pink T-shirt and a tag that says, “Trainee,” taps the screen in front of her a couple of times. Fiona nods, satisfied.
I pay, ignoring the prodding and meaningful glances that Simone, Candice, and Fiona throw my way. Finally, when I have the two coffees in my hands, I turn to them and square my shoulders. “I’ve decided to apologize for slapping him. That was wrong of me.”
“He did maul you,” Candice reminds me. “A slap seems fair to me.”
“Nevertheless,” I answer, “I’d rather not start this new phase of my life with assault.”
Simone nods sagely. “Well, you know the rules, babe.”
I frown. “The rules?”
She stands up straighter, clasping her hands at her navel. “Thou shalt share all gossip with thy lady-friends as soon as humanly possible.”
Rolling my eyes, I try to hide the smile tugging at my lips. When I’m loading the two coffees into the cupholder of my cherry-red Vespa scooter, Simone pokes her head out the door. “Gossip includes all future maulings, by the way.”
“There won’t be any maulings happening,” I inform her, primly sliding my helmet on.
“Hey,” she says, throwing her hands up, “I don’t make the rules. I’m just telling you how things work around here.”
Laughing, I straddle the seat and lift the kickstand. “I’ll text you after I’m done.”
“That’s all we ask,” Simone answers reasonably.
Five minutes later, my scooter is parked across the street from a corrugated-steel-clad warehouse. Sparks fly through the open doorway as the whining of some machinery reaches my ears. I set the kickstand, straighten my sundress, fluff my hair to mitigate the unfortunate helmet head that my mode of transportation creates, and grab the two coffees from the little cupholder installed against the leg shield at the front of my scooter.
The sound of grinding metal stops, and the sparks arcing in the open doorway drift down and fade to darkness. I square my shoulders and march across the cracked asphalt, passing Sebastian’s old Ford pickup truck. His worn cowboy hat rests on the passenger seat, out of place here in Heart’s Cove but somehow still fitting into its surroundings. My heart thumps as I get to the doorway.
And I immediately regret my decision to come here.
Sebastian is wearing a black tee, a heavy leather apron, and big safety gloves that reach up to his elbows. His face is covered with a face shield, but I can see trails of sweat leaving wet lines down his corded neck. His shirt is stuck to every hard plane of his body, revealing cut biceps and a muscular back. Jeans sit low on his hips, hugging every taut muscle on his legs. He hauls a heavy power tool off the slab of metal in front of him in one strong motion, setting it down at his feet while he lifts his face shield with his other hand.
Every movement Sebastian makes, every line of his body, every bead of sweat on his skin betrays power and strength. The wind ruffles my skirt as I inhale the scent of steel and sawdust, my heart hammering a rapid beat against its cage.
Heat winds through my body at the sight of him. I want him to handlemeas easily as he did that big piece of machinery. I want all that sweat and muscle and bulk pressed up against my body, dominating, subduing.
It’s disconcerting. I blink, stare, and try to get a grip on myself, but it’s no use. As someone who has prided herself on being a businesswoman, a boss, I feel almost ashamed of all the things I want. I’ve always been strong, but right now, I’m craving the feel of this man, so much bigger and stronger than I am, and craving all the things he might do to me if I let him.
Iwantto be overpowered, to be manhandled. I don’t understand it. I don’t even want tothinkabout it.
I must make a noise, because Sebastian glances my way and starts. He pulls the face shield completely off his head, revealing messy hair and a glistening, sweat-dappled forehead. He didn’t shave this morning; I can tell by the salt-and-pepper stubble that sends another tumbling sensation below my navel.
It’s not fair that men get to age like fine wine, while women are treated like they’re vinegar. It’s not fair thathisgray-dappled beard makes my insides twist while I lament and dye my own silver strands. It’s not fair that over two decades on, I’m more attracted to my high school sweetheart than I was when we were teens.
A series of emotions flash across his face. Surprise, annoyance, guilt, relief. My throat grows tight when he finally says, “Georgia.”
