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I cringed as I pulled back the second card. “Something must be wrong. I’ll have to call and get this straightened out.”
I left the counter, looking down at the floor to avoid the stares, and scurried to the corner of the store. I dialed the number on the back of my Visa. When the annoying mechanical voice asked for it, I keyed in my card number. Instead of giving me my balance information, I was told to wait for the next available agent. I settled into a seat while the telephone hold music played.
“Caffè mocha, right?” That same one-hundred-octane male voice said.
I looked up to see Mr. Broad Shoulders, Ryan, holding two cups with an iPad tucked under one arm.
He held one out for me. The sight of this man froze me in place, now that I got a good look at the features and size of him. His deep blue eyes captured me and wouldn’t let me go.
“Here, take it; I can’t drink two.” The voice was even deeper and more chocolaty than at the counter.
“You shouldn’t have,” I offered feebly, reaching for my purse to pay him back.
His brow knit, and he thrust the cup forward. “Here, I can’t miss my quota.”
I accepted the cup. “Quota?”
His smile returned. “When I was ten, I promised my mother to do at least one good deed a week.”
My grin nearly broke my face. “Really?” A man who kept a promise to his mother couldn’t be all bad. Or it was the most off-the-wall pickup line I’d ever heard.
He turned and walked toward the door.
Not a pick-up line, evidently.
“Thank you,” I called after him, watching his tight ass like a pervert. Hell, it had been a long time, after all. I deserved to watch if I wanted.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text. I moved the phone from my ear and checked the screen.
BROSNAHAND: Call me - we need to talk
Another chat with Brosnahand, my ex-husband’s lawyer, was not going to rise to the top of my list today, and probably not even tomorrow. Whatever information he had to pass on was unlikely to brighten my outlook. Even after agreeing to the divorce, Damien still wanted to talk to me. The feeling wasn’t mutual.
Becoming Damien Winterbourne’s wife had been the worst mistake of my life. He’d fooled me, along with all the people that now regretted ever having done business with him. To every one of my previous so-called friends, sharing his last name meant sharing his guilt. The Winterbourne name was now radioactive in Boston, at least until the memories faded. As soon as I sold the house, I’d get as far away from here as I could, as fast as I could.
Damien was cooling his heels in jail, awaiting trial——a good place for him to be. The judge had been perceptive enough to see him as a flight risk.
I ended the call with the credit card company. Waiting on terminal hold would be more comfortable at home. I hadn’t remembered to charge my phone last night, and the notice on the screen told me I had less than twenty percent battery left. I ignored the warning. The phone went back in my purse.
I collected my free mocha, my purse, and added a packet of sweetener to my cup before heading out. Coffee wasn’t the purpose of my trip to this part of town. Cartier Jewelers next door was about to open.
Turning right out of Peet’s, the sight stopped me in my tracks. I stifled a laugh.
With his coffee in one hand and his iPad in the other, Ryan was trying to use his chin to scroll the text on the tablet as he read a page and chin-scrolled farther down to read some more.
I ventured closer, stretching my smirk to a smile. “Thank you for the coffee, Ryan.”
He glanced momentarily in my direction. “You already said that.” He went back to his reading.
Somebody has a stick up his ass today.
Thankfully I didn’t mouth the words.
“You’re welcome, Natalie,” he added after another chin-scroll.
He’d noticed my name, a point in his favor.
I found myself glancing at his profile in the morning sun as I waited. His face was one a Roman sculptor would have chosen, I decided.
