“I think they’d be doing you a favor if they shunned you,” she whispers loudly.
Ignoring her, I glance ahead at the familiar face behind the counter. His name is Sean and he’s a barista.
Or baristo. Or whatever the masculine version of a barista is. If there is one. Let’s just say he’s the guy who makes and serves me coffee on a fairly regular basis.
This shop is one of my favorite places to come when I need to get some work done and don’t want to sit at the house.
When we finally make it to the counter, Sean greets me enthusiastically. “Hey, chica! What’s it going to be today?”
“Hi, Sean. Um, I hate to admit it, but I’m going to be predictable today. This is like comfort food to me.”
“Predictable? So you want the usual? A grande nonfat cinnamon dulce with extra whip?”
I smile. “You got it!” I look to Chris. “What do you want?”
“Umm, I think I’ll have the same,” she says, suddenly agreeable as she turns on a bright smile for Sean.
I have to work to hold back my snicker. Chris is happy with Greg, but she’s an incorrigible flirt. What I’ll have to tell her later is that she is soooo barking up the wrong tree.
“Go sit,” he says. “I’ll bring them out.”
I pucker my lips at him and he mimics the action. We both smile and I turn to get napkins, and find me and Chris a table.
Sean is very handsome. His hair is dark and his skin is golden, and he has a delicious accent. He’s discernibly Latin. Some might think he’s flirting with me. I happen to know he prefers blonds instead of red heads. Blond men, that is. That doesn’t bother me at all, though. It’s our camaraderie that I love.
The only empty table is situated near the door. I put my bag in one wooden chair and I slide into the other. As Chris takes the seat across from me, I pull out my notebook and glance around the small cafe.
People are scattered throughout the room—sitting, standing, leaning—chatting casually over steaming cups of their favorite coffee. The smell of dark beans and rich sweeteners fills the air. I inhale deeply, letting the aroma soothe me. This is one of my most beloved places on the planet.
I hear the bell over the door jingle as it opens. I don’t think anything of it until I hear Chris’s exclamation.
“Holy shit! It’s him!”
I turn around to see who’s got her so excited. My reaction, although not audible, is much more profound than hers.
My heart flutters. My lungs freeze. My stomach contracts.
It’s Mason.
I mean Alec. Alec Brand.
I think I’d recognize him anywhere, from any angle. He’s as familiar to me as the characters I live with every minute of every day. He’s the embodiment of my hopes as well as my fears, my dreams as well as my nightmares.
I thought of him no less than a dozen times last night. Then, after finally getting him out of my mind long enough to doze off to sleep, I dreamed of him, of the real-life Mason Strait.
I woke thinking of him, too. But since then, I’d just about managed to convince myself it was a trick of the light. I just knew there was no way I was remembering him correctly, that there was no way he looked that much like Mason.
But today shows it wasn’t the lighting. Or my imagination. Or my faulty memory. He’s as breathtaking as I remember him being, as breathtaking as I’ve always imagined him to be. As Mason, that is. When he walks toward the line of people waiting to order, I see that he even swaggers like Mason. It’s insane!
He stops at the end of the line, behind the last person, and shifts his weight to one foot. The tips of his fingers are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing boots again, and a dark blue t-shirt. A brown leather messenger bag is slung over one shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I see several heads turn toward him. I’m sure he’s drawing nearly every eye in the small shop. And why not? He’s masculine and gorgeous and charismatic as hell.
His head begins to turn in my direction. My heart leaps with excitement and pumps copious amounts of blood into my cheeks. I whirl around in my seat, hoping he doesn’t see me or my reaction.
I blush easily, making me particularly thankful for the harsh overhead lights. They tend to wash out any extra rosy hue, obscuring any physical reactions like this one.
“That’s him, right? The guy from yesterday?”
I nod.
“What the hell are you waiting for? Go talk to him!”
“Shhh,” I hiss at her, peeking surreptitiously over my shoulder to make sure she’s not getting his attention. “First of all, please don’t embarrass me. Secondly, he has no clue who I am, remember?”
Chris turns her confused eyes to me. I watch her puzzle over my question for a minute before understanding dawns. “Right. Damn. Where’s that wig when you need it?”
“At home. Right where it should be. Where it’s far away from you.”
Her eyes light up. “Ooo, you could have twice the fun! Just think of it. He’d have no idea—”
“Stop right there. I go to too much trouble to keep up this ruse. There’s no way I could pull off something like that. So, no. Don’t even think about it.”
Chris pushes out her lower lip in a pout.
“Promise me, Chris,” I demand warningly. I can see that she’s plotting. And I know her far too well to think she’ll drop it unless I make her promise. I learned that shortly after being notified of an unexplained appointment with a therapist.
“Fine.”
“Promise?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. I promise.”
I smile, feeling better already. “Good. Now, can we just enjoy our coffee?”
“That would be great if we had coffee.”
I glance at the table that’s empty but for my notebook. “Oh.”
I look up at Chris and we both start laughing.
“Wow, maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s best to leave this one alone. He’s already making you an idiot.”
“Your confidence in me is touching,” I say dryly.
Before I can even think twice, I’m glancing over my shoulder again. I’m trying to pull my eyes away just as he pivots in my direction.
I know I should look away. But I can’t. It’s as though some part of me is so compelled to see those eyes again, those haunting pale green eyes, that I physically can’t turn my head away.
When his gaze meets mine and stops, the bottom drops out of my stomach. He stares, unabashedly, his expression curiously blank.
For a few seconds, I’m lost in those eyes. They’re so familiar, they evoke so many emotions, both wanted and unwanted, that I find myself waiting breathlessly for him to do or say something that only Mason would do.
It’s the rise of one raven brow that breaks the spell. More blood rushes into my cheeks and my eyes widen in shock before I spin away.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” I whisper, closing my eyes.
“What?” Chris says, a smile in her voice. “What the hell is wrong with you? That was a serious moment you two just had. Let’s go buy you some silk panties for your first date.”
I know she’s teasing, but I’m in no mood to appreciate it.
“What if he recognized me?” I whisper, keeping my head down.
“How? Even I barely recognize you in your LD garb. There’s no way a perfect stranger would put that together after two minutes of looking at you.”
I glance up at Chris. I know she’s right. The chances are extremely slim. But still… It’s enough to make me feel a little panicked.
A shadow falls over our table from behind my shoulder. I hold my breath, afraid to look back. My heart is pounding.
A familiar voice cuts into my anxiety.
“Two grande nonfat cinnamon dulces with extra whip.”
I look up. It’s Sean. I smile and sigh in relief, taking one of the collared cups from his outstretched hand.
“Thanks, Sean.”
“Enjoy it, chica,” he says, nodding at me then at Chris before turning to make his way back to the counter.
As I watch him go, I can’t help that my eyes flicker to where Alec Brand is standing in line. He’s like Aurora Borealis—colorful, fascinating lights twinkling in the dull, black expanse of my internal sky—and I can’t help but fixate on him. He draws my eye, my thoughts, and some deep and tragic part of my soul toward him. I’m practically helpless to resist.
Blood rushes into my cheeks again when my eyes collide with penetrating green ones. For just a moment, I wish I was safely ensconced in Laura Drake. Not only has she already met Alec, but she’d know just what to say, how to act, how to handle herself in this situation. In any situation.
But I’m no Laura Drake. Without her façade, I’m a wallflower with scars that only I can see.
Feeling the rise of insecurities that are as familiar to me as my dark red hair, I turn quickly away, hoping Alec won’t get a glimpse of them. I don’t know why I even care, really. It’s not like I’ll ever see him again. Twice is already some kind of bizarre fluke. The odds of it happening again are astronomical!
But still…he’s my Mason. If this is the only moment I ever get with him, that’s not how I want it to go—all bungling and embarrassment on my end.
“Da-yum! You two really do have some kind of thing going on, don’t you? Maybe he does recognize you.”
My heart drops into my shoes. “God, Chris, don’t even say that!”
“Calm down, calm down. You know that’s not even a remote possibility. What I’m really diggin’, though, is the fact that he’s attracted to both of you. Maybe he’s the man that can see beyond the surface,” she says, dropping her voice into a soft, mystical tone. “Maybe he can break through your walls, heal all your wounds, banish all your insecurities.”
“Stop it, you dork. This isn’t a romantic comedy.”
“No, your life is definitely a drama! A dark, twisted one.”
I say nothing to her comment. My mind is still firmly on the man standing somewhere behind me. It’s not until Chris starts freaking out that I have some idea of what’s coming.
“Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!” she hisses through lips that hardly move. “Here he comes!”
I freeze. I don’t move one single muscle. I just stare into Chris’s wide eyes until a shape appears at my right. Slowly, I turn my head and look up, falling headlong into the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen in real life. I see them in my head all the time. And I saw them from somewhat of a distance yesterday. But no amount of exposure could’ve prepared me for the reality of them up-close. They’re like drops of cool lime with a splash of warm cream.
He glances away from me and nods to Chris before his eyes return to mine. He tilts his head slightly to the side as he considers me. Still, he hasn’t said a word. Still, my pulse is racing out of control.
“Can we help you?” Chris says from across the table. I can hear the smile in her voice.
He doesn’t answer for several long seconds.
“I know you.” It’s a statement, not a question.
A voice inside my head, one that I only listen to when I’m writing, cries out emphatically. Yes, yes, yes! You know me inside and out! Just like I know you.
But I shush her. He doesn’t know me. He couldn’t possibly. And I couldn’t possibly know him. Even though he looks and, thus far, acts exactly like the man that arose from the core of my imagination, from my darkest desires and deepest fears, I can’t let myself forget that he’s not Mason Strait.
“No,” I reply.
He falls silent again, his continued perusal making me increasingly breathless. Finally his eyes narrow on me. “I want to.”
I don’t know what to say. I want to know him, too. In a way. But in a way, I get the feeling that a man like this could be the end of me, the end of my life as I’ve known it. I write about star-crossed love every day, about people who need so deeply and feel so passionately that their world caves in around them. I’d be crazy to risk something like that.
But I’d also be crazy not to. As surely as I’m sitting here, I know I would forever regret it if I didn’t say yes to this man. At least once.
“Her silence means please do,” Chris chirps happily.
I watch one brow rise again. It conveys so much when he does it. It’s sarcastic. It’s devilish. It’s arrogant. It’s challenging.
He’s daring me.
“You’ve never met a man like me.”
His voice is like smooth, rich caramel, pouring over my skin, oozing into every crevice, invading every cell.
My answer is the same. “No.” And I haven’t, outside of my head.
“Maybe you could tell her all about it tonight at a black-tie fundraiser for Childhood Neurological Disorders,” Chris adds. “Eight o’clock.”
Neither of us has spared her a glance since his eyes came back to mine.
“Are you brave enough?” he asks. I would say that he doesn’t know how much he terrifies me, but I think he does. I also think he knows just how much he excites me. “Give me your phone.”
With shaking hands, I grab my purse, reaching inside to bring out my phone. He takes it from me, his fingers brushing mine, his eyes seeing right through me.
When he moves his attention to the little black rectangle, I feel somewhat released from his spell. My mind is whirling with the same thought, over and over again.
Is this really happening? Is this really happening?
I feel like Daire again. I’m caught in the spider’s web. I feel the heat. I sense the danger. But still yet, I’m captivated by the spider.