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I grab the other cup and lead the way out, going first through the door.
And that’s when tragedy strikes.
I see it unfold as if in slo mo, incapable of doing anything to stop it.
The front door’s closing mechanism is either broken or missing the device that slows down the speed at which the door closes, something I’d noticed when I’d narrowly missed having the door slam into me as I exited the restaurant the first time.
I go through the door first, holding it open for Sixtine who puts her hand out to keep it open as she passes. At the same time, a trio of men walk up to the door and effectively block my path. I slow down to avoid bumping into the middle one, only for Six to bump into me as I abruptly stop. I manage to keep my balance until the door Six had let go of moments earlier slams into her, causing her to trip into me and me to fall forward a couple steps.
I watch in horror as my cup, filled to the brim with the famous Malteser shake and topped with the world’s most generous helping of whipped cream goes crashing against the hard body now standing in front of me.
The cup is still in my hand somehow but the entirety of the drink has landed on his shirt, dripping down his chest in rivulets of chocolate and cream.
“Oh, my god.” I say, horrified.
For a moment, I say nothing as I take in the carnage before me. And I’m not the only one.
The man hasn’t reacted in the slightest.
He stands as if frozen in time, his body in the exact same position he was in when the milkshake hit him — both hands fisted in his pockets, one of his legs still partially bent from being stopped mid-step.
His face is tilted downwards, taking in the mess on his shirt and blocking his features from my view. All I can focus on is his head of dark brown hair; it’s thick and shiny and I immediately want to run my fingers through it and see if it’s as soft as it looks.
What the fuck.
He still hasn’t moved, and it’s unnatural the stillness in him. It’s inexplicable, but there should be more movement to him. His muscles should be twitching, his balance should be starting to give, his pulse should be thumping in his veins, his chest should be moving up and down in a steady beat.
Or a furious one like mine is now.
In, out. In, out.
Hell, the slight breeze in the air should be caressing his hair and moving through his locks.
But those things aren’t discernible at all, his stillness making him look almost statue-like. It’s like even the elements know to stay far away.
His lack of reaction allows me to quickly inspect the parts of him I can see.
His shoulders are tense beneath a t-shirt pulled tight around his chest due to the rigidity in his upper body. The short sleeves of his shirt allow me to see the sinewy muscles of his arms, almost completely covered in gorgeous patchwork tattoos. I want to trace my fingers across his arms, discovering them one by one as he explains the stories behind them. From where I stand, I can make out a thick Japanese-style dragon wrapped around the top half of his right arm, above a collection of smaller tattoos. I see roses, figures of Greek mythology, a dagger, the words ‘memento mori’, a skull. His left arm is less tattooed, revealing some golden skin and defined veins leading into his clenched fists.
His body speaks of hours spent in the gym, although he’s not overly bulky. And he’s tall. Even with his head bent, he towers over me.
“I’m so sorry.”
The sound of my voice seems to break the trance he’s in, his stillness shattering like glass at our feet. His head lifts slowly and I get my first look at his face.
He’s beautiful.
The golden skin of his arms continues into his chiseled face, unblemished except for a healing cut on his nose which only adds to the dangerous vibes exuding from him. If I were to guess, I’d say he’s of Middle Eastern descent.
His bottom lip is slightly larger than his top one and he has the thickest, longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. They sit beneath a set of thick eyebrows and frame a pair of deep green eyes.
My breath hitches as our gazes clash because the look in his eyes is the opposite of the stillness in his body from before.
They’re shooting pure venom in my direction.
A look of such downright hostility the force of his gaze almost knocks me backwards.
He looks furious.
