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The curser on the screen of my laptop blinks at me, mocking me as I finish off my second cup of coffee. My deadline for this article is in two days, and I’ve got nothing. I don’t understand how someone can be expected to write about something they have zero interest in. Writing is an art form. It should be a free expression of words, not assigned topics and guidelines.
It’s my own damn fault. If I weren’t such a chicken shit, I’d finish one of the twenty manuscripts I’ve started and be querying agents and publishers. But I let the fear of rejection keep me from that dream. Instead, I’m stuck writing about things like the history of Bradly Farms for the local paper. Every fall, we do a piece on that place, and it’s not like anyone gives a damn. They just want to get their freaking pumpkins.
Smyth, Tennessee isn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. The town’s population is no more than thirty thousand. Hell, the entire Ruth County population is only around fifty thousand. So, writing for the county paper doesn’t give me a lot of opportunities for stories worthy of national attention.
My groans gain the attention of the other customers sitting behind their laptops. I give them a sheepish grin and wave in apology, though I really want to give them the finger, getting up to throw away my cup before heading back over to the counter for more caffeine.
This is my favorite coffee shop. Not that Smyth has a lot of options. It’s located in one of the old buildings in the downtown square, and I love the vibe—from the exposed brick walls to the low hanging lights that are basically bulbs on string. And the menu is to die for. Their white chocolate macadamia cookie flavored coffee is like crack. It hurts my heart to think of all the people who come in here and screw it up by adding cream and sugar. But my absolute favorite thing about this place is the corner table with the leather sofa. I can, and do, sit there for hours comfortably writing and drinking my crack coffee.
As I wait for my order, my mind drifts to the manuscript I worked on last night while successfully avoiding the article I need to finish—and should be thinking about now. It’s a psychological thriller about a girl who falls for and starts an affair with her college professor, only to find out she looks like his college sweetheart he’s suspected of killing. It’s dark and twisted like me, and so much easier to write than this drab crap for the paper.
The door to the coffee shop opens, and the smell of the rainstorm flows in with the wind blowing through my hair. On instinct, I turn, and my abdomen tightens at the sight of the uniform clad man walking toward me. He very well may be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen—at least in person.
I’ve never hooked up with a man in blue before. Can’t even say I find the whole man with a badge thing very appealing. But the way he’s filling out his uniform has me reconsidering that option. I’m sure we could find a beneficial use for those handcuffs on his belt. Once he’s close enough for me to get a better look at his face, I give him a flirtatious smile. His chocolate eyes seem to sparkle as he returns my smile with a nervous chuckle. I allow myself to imagine how it would feel to run my hands through his thick, dark hair and over the well-manicured facial hair outlining his sculpted jaw.
“Lori,” the barista shouts, startling me out of my fantasy and forcing me to finally pull my eyes away from Officer Dreamy.
I grab out another ten-dollar bill and hand it to her as I take my coffee, explaining I want to pay for the officer’s coffee as well. She gives me a quick nod before taking it from me. As I turn to walk back to my table, I glance over to the other end of the bar, pleased to find him still watching me.
There was a time when I was shy around the opposite sex. Even the thought of kissing a boy would make my stomach tie up in knots. If most of my firsts hadn’t been stolen from me, I probably would’ve ended up being an old spinster too afraid to ever approach a man, let alone go home with one. Looking at things through a glass half full perspective, I suppose I should be grateful I was stripped of my inhibitions right along with my innocence.
My heart is racing by the time I’m back in my seat with my laptop in front of me, and I do my best to look occupied with my work, not wanting to seem overly eager. It’s not like me to react to men in this way. Don’t get me wrong, I love men, but they’re a means to an end. They help me scratch the itch when I have one, not turn me into a drooling dope. Yet here I am, doing just that.
I refuse to look up from my computer, but I feel his stare on my skin as he approaches my table. My fingers tremble as I type nonsense into my keyboard, feigning a casual demeanor. When his shadow falls over my booth, I raise my head to meet his gaze.
He lifts the cup of coffee he’s holding. “I wanted to thank you for the coffee. That was kind of you.”
“Well, thank you for your service.” My lips spread into a lazy smile.
This is normally where I’d say something very direct like, maybe you can be of service to me sometime. The words are right on the tip of my tongue, but I totally choke and stare at him like an idiot.
He rubs the back of his neck as his eyes dart over to the exit, then back to me. “Look, I’m on duty right now, but—”
Noise from the walkie talkie on his shoulder cuts him off. I don’t understand anything that’s said, but when he sighs and looks at me with disappointed eyes, I know what it means for our conversation. His stare is pinned on me as he lifts his hand to push the talk button on the radio, his head turning as he brings his mouth closer to the receiver and spouts more police jargon I don’t understand in response. When he’s done, he gives me a sad smile.
“I have to go,” he says before letting out another sigh. “I’m Duncan…” he shakes his head, “I mean, Spencer Duncan.”
He’s so adorable, I can’t help smiling, even past the dread knotting in my stomach. Normally, something like this wouldn’t even faze me. If one fish gets off the hook, another is bound to come along. But damn it, I want him, and I feel like having a full-blown tantrum right now.
“It’s nice to meet you, Officer Duncan,” I reply, playing it cool. “I’m Lori Stevens.”
A smile lights up his face. It’s so damn sexy, I’m certain he could’ve just impregnated me. He hooks his free thumb into the utility belt around his waist, causing his bicep to strain against the short sleeves of his uniform, his head tilting in a departing gesture.
“Until next time.”
My gaze follows him as he jogs toward the exit and out the door, admiring the way his ass looks in those pants.
Dear God, please let there be a next time.
2
Spencer
7 Months Ago
My eyes are glued on her as she walks into the station, the curls in her chestnut hair bouncing as she struts toward the front desk. Lori Stevens. I haven’t stopped thinking about this woman since we met. After visiting that same coffee shop every day for an entire month without success, I’d finally given up on ever seeing her again. I can’t stand the thought of coffee at this point. Hell, even the baristas know me by name now. It was getting pathetic. I had to accept that she may’ve been nothing more than my own personal unicorn.
Sure, I had her name and could’ve easily found out anything I wanted or needed to know about her. But that seemed creepy and wrong. Our initial meeting was so natural and real, I wanted to get to know her in the same way.
