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“Just get your ass to work,” Oxley says. “Talk to the girl or don’t. It doesn’t mean shit to me. But quit stalking her through town. It won’t take long before people start noticing, and I hate to break it to you, man, but you stand out like dogs’ balls. There’s not a damn inconspicuous thing about you.”
Rolling my eyes, I march across the road to where I’ve parked my truck by the side of the dog park, doing everything in my power not to turn my gaze toward the coffee shop. “I’m hanging up,” I warn him.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” he throws back at me. “Just don’t come sulking to me when you get slapped with a restraining order.”
The line goes dead, and I shove my phone back into my pocket as I reach my truck, opening the back door and dumping the small bag of snacks onto the seat. Then because I’m a sucker for punishment, my gaze drifts down the road toward the coffee shop, only to find a pair of wide blue eyes staring back at me.
7
BLAIR
Ahhhhhhhhhhfuck.
My eyes widen like two primed and prepped assholes right before world domination.
Nick stands across the street, his gaze locked firmly on mine as he opens the door of his old red pickup, the same truck we lost ourselves in a million times over. And damn it, he looks fucking phenomenal.
Panic soars through my veins, quickly taking hold of all common sense, and before I have a chance to find any semblance of control, I throw myself forward, swan diving over the counter of Blushing’s best coffee house and crumbling to the dirty floor.
“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the barista demands, gaping at me as though I’ve lost my mind. And yeah, considering I’m crouched at his feet with my whipped-cream-topped caramel latte now splattered across the back wall of the store, I think that could be a high possibility.
“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.” My tone hitches up an octave, but I can’t seem to stop.
“DUUUUUUDE!” the barista reprimands, shoving his booted foot out to catch me in the ribs, and while it’s barely a graze, I’ll definitely suggest he broke a rib when I tell the story to Rena later.
My eyes flick up, meeting his irritated gaze. “I, uhhhhh . . . shit. I’m sorry. But is the drop-dead gorgeous hunk of a man who looks like he could snap a woman in half with nothing more than his pinky finger still staring this way?”
“What?”
“Just look,” I beg, two seconds away from bursting into an uncontrollable flood of tears. Because talking through wild emotions like an adult is apparently beyond me today. I’ll skip all the acceptable reactions and hightail it straight to heaving sobs.
“If I tell you, will you get off the fucking floor?”
“I don’t think you want my honest answer,” I tell him as a clump of whipped cream falls from the wall and splatters on the ground right in front of my feet. “I might be here for a while. We might as well get acquainted. Who knows? It could be fun.”
The barista mutters something under his breath before reluctantly leaning forward over the counter to get the best view of the street. “Are you talking about the tall guy with the red pickup who’s looking over here and shaking his head like he’s never been so disappointed in his life?”
Shit. I know that look well, and considering everything, it devastates me. He has every right to be disappointed in me. Hell, I’m disappointed in myself. The first time seeing Nick in a little under six years and I swan dive over a counter just to avoid him. I’ve pictured this moment so many times. I always pictured that I would smile and step into his open arms before planting a kiss on his stubbled cheek, maybe letting it linger just a second too long. He would be happy to see me, both of us sharing our lives over coffee and quickly catching up. But swan diving?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard, my hands uncontrollably shaking. “Is he gone?”
“Clearly if he’s busy shaking his head, he’s not gone.”
“Holy fuck.”
“Yep. You said that already,” he murmurs, grabbing a dish rag and throwing it at me, the damp cloth landing on my arm. “If you’re going to take up residence on the floor, the least you can do is start mopping up your latte.”
I grumble a string of insults and hope like fuck this guy isn’t going to spit in my latte when I ask him to make me a new one, but nonetheless, I grab the dish rag and start cleaning up my mess.
“So, you new in town?” he asks, getting on with other orders, clearly coming to terms with the fact that the sticky floor has just become my new home for the next . . . I don’t even know how long.
“Not exactly,” I tell him. “I grew up here. I’m just home for the holiday break and then I’ll be heading back to New York.”
“Ahhh, so I take it Mr. Disappointment out there is an ex then?”
