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“Thank you and sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
She leans back in the chair and I immediately miss her proximity. Miss the subtle scent of fresh-baked bread she wears like perfume. But I shove my feelings aside.
Serious equals heartache.
“Not really sure,” she says with a laugh. “My curtness, I suppose. I’m not generally so harsh.”
Had she been harsh? Not in my opinion. Hell, she’d been too sweet to the woman throwing a tantrum. If anything, she appeared more shocked than rude at the sight of me. I’d be surprised too.
Before I’d left her, we’d agreed one night would be it. Had the memory of that night been a frequent companion these past six months? Yes. Too many times to count. The memory of her was constant.
But I wouldn’t go back on our deal. With her name a mystery, it isn’t difficult to ignore her.
Sure, I could do the weird stalker thing and Google her address. Type the business name in a search engine and scour every link to pop up. But I am not that guy, nor do I want to be. Last thing I need is to get sucked into hours of internet stalking. The idea makes me queasy.
I mimic her actions and lean back in my chair. “Well, you just dealt with that woman.” I point a thumb over my shoulder. “No doubt she spiked your blood pressure.”
“Ugh.” Her hand dips beneath the table then reappears with the tie string on her apron. She rolls it between her fingers over and over. “We don’t get many people like that in here. But every once in a while, they crawl out of some secret hibernation cave and growl at us.”
My eyes dart between hers for a beat. Then, out of nowhere, I laugh. Loud and throaty and so hard my stomach cramps. A few people at neighboring tables glance our way. I taper my laughter and wave in apology to the onlookers, then refocus my attention across the table.
For a split second, the deal we made months ago fades into the background.
What would it be like to wake up next to her every day? A simple glimpse at a daydream and I see the answer a little too clearly. My arm around her waist as I tug her back flush to my front. Nose buried in the crook of her neck, inhaling her sweet scent. Tasting and touching every inch of her body until we’re both breathless.
There would be no bad days if they started with her.
But it isn’t reality. Just a fantasy. A whimsical dream.
“So, what’s good here?” I break eye contact and focus on the wall-to-wall chalkboard menu. Look anywhere but at her.
“How hungry are you?”
I pat my stomach as a grumble sounds loud enough for her to hear. “Hungrier, now that I’m thinking about it.”
“Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee with stevia and oat milk.”
She hums as her eyes narrow and assess. “Interesting.”
“What?”
“I have a knack for figuring people out by what they order. Call it a gift.”
I lean forward and prop my elbows on the table. She watches my every move; eyes drifting along my forearms, up my chest, and taking a brief pause at my lips before meeting my gaze. The way she locks on to me says more than any verbal exchange.
She, too, battles with her urges. The urge to not let this—whatever it is—become more than a fun night between the sheets. The urge to remain nameless acquaintances.
Is that what we are? Hell if I know. Feels like we are somewhere between strangers and acquaintances. Strangers who have caressed the other’s skin. Tasted the other’s lips. Heard the other’s moan as they came undone. Strangers, but so much more.
A timid voice in the back of my head questions if friendship is possible. But I shut that voice down. Now isn’t the time.
“A gift, huh?”
Her eyes dart between mine, searching. She swallows and inches closer to the table. “Yep.”
