CHAPTER THREE
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Brianna
“I ’m just calling you so you know where I am,” I tell Deb as I lock up my apartment and head downstairs.
“Not near your apartment, right? I wish you would have waited for me. It’s a guy—are you sure?”
“Yes. He called this morning and asked to get together to talk about the items on the flyer. I said I’d meet him for coffee at my place—which he doesn’t know I work there, of course. But there will be plenty of people there—people I know. I promise I’ll be safe.”
“But a guy?”
“Maybe he wants to surprise his fiancée,” I say. “I don’t care—this was the whole point of putting up the flyers and making the ad, right?”
“Yes. But…you sure you don’t want me to come? I know karate.”
I laugh as I walk down the sidewalk. “No. If he gets all psycho, I’ll toss my hot coffee on him and run.”
“Fast. Call me when you’re done.”
“Yep.” I end the call and enjoy the stroll.
I didn’t tell the guy we’re meeting at the coffee shop I work at. I figured it’d be safer so people would have my back. Maybe not the best idea, though, if he does out to be a stalker. Then he’ll know where I work.
But he didn’t sound like a psycho. He sounded genuinely interested. He asked a few questions in his deep husky voice, making me picture some tall, dark-haired man who just wanted to give the fiancée he adored the best wedding ever but didn’t have the money to do it.
My instincts said he was safe, so I agreed to meet.
I arrive early to grab my coffee and explain to one of my co-workers I’ll be outside with a mystery man, and then sit under the shade of an umbrella.
Being a barista is just my side job. My true passion is graphic design—but it takes years to build up a reputation and clients and…well, these last several months I haven’t being building a reputation so much as catering to Chet.
Asshole.
Before I can mentally berate him anymore, I see him. Not Chet and not the guy I’m supposed to meet, but him. The guy from the bar. The guy I’m pretty sure sent me and Deb a drink halfway through the evening.
Hell. He’s even hotter in the daytime—now that I can see dark stubble lining his jaw, and eyes bluer than the ocean. He’s not dressed up this time. Just wearing dark-wash jeans and button-down shirt, folded up on his forearms like some sort of model.
He spots me and grins. “Hey.”
I lean back in my seat, lifting my coffee. Playing it cool. “Hey.”
“They have good coffee here?”
I nod. “The best.”
He sits. “I might grab some in a minute.”
“I’m—you can’t—” I break off, realizing I’m definitely not playing it cool now. “I’m meeting someone.”
He thrusts out a hand. “I’m Michael.”
“But…” I glance around, like there has to be someone else coming. Or like someone is playing an elaborate joke on me.
But I’ve learned that’s the way of the universe lately. Everything feels like an elaborate joke on me, designed to make me wonder why I ever even get up most mornings.
“You’re Brianna, right? I talked with you on the phone this morning.”
Common courtesy has me reaching out to shake his hand, though inside I’m sputtering expletives.
“I’m…I didn’t.” Grr! Why can’t I get a grip on myself? I breathe in deep and try again. “Yes, I’m Brianna. I didn’t realize when I saw you the other day that you were looking for a wedding. Or wedding stuff. Whatever.”
“I didn’t realize it either.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s complicated, and part of the reason I’m here.” But instead of explaining, he stands and gestures to the door of the shop. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to grab a coffee. I’ll get you another one, too. What are you having?”
I tell him, though I’m sure it’s a terrible idea that I’m here. I’m positive he bought drinks for me and Deb. So…what? He was cheating on his girlfriend or fiancée? Or maybe he just felt sorry for the woman selling her wedding.
Or maybe…maybe he’s helping out a friend or a sister. Maybe they need wedding items and he’s the lucky one who gets to screen the psycho selling her wedding dress.
I’m not sure, but I remind myself how much I need the money. The least I can do is hear him out.
When Michael returns, he sets my coffee in front of me and takes his seat again. He crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair like we’re old friends. Like he’s already comfortable with me.
That’s when I notice…he looks familiar. I’ve seen him before. Maybe at a meeting or maybe even in the coffee shop? No, that’s not it. I’ve seen him somewhere else.
“You’re staring,” he says.
I drop my eyes and flush. “Sorry. You look familiar.”
“I was wondering if that would come up.”
“What?”
“You might have seen me…around.” He grins. “Like in the papers. Or on a magazine. Michael Parsons.”
“Shit—you’re right. I did see you on a magazine. Wait…” I search my memory. “They were talking about your fiancée—you are getting married.”
“Well—wait…that’s a bit of an embellishment.”
“But you’re looking to get married?”
“You could say that,” he answers.
A little too cryptic for my taste. But it isn’t my business. In fact, if I’m treating this like business, I just need to close the deal.
“I have set prices for each item on the list, but I’m willing to negotiate,” I say. Something flickers in his gaze—surprise maybe—but I don’t stop. Business. “I’d prefer to sell as much as possible as a package, but again, I’m willing to negotiate.”
He angles his head, thinking. Doing more than thinking. It looks like he’s trying to figure me out. Then he nods. “I’m willing to buy the entire package at the price you name.”
I blink, shocked. “You are?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
My stomach clenches. So, there are going to be negotiations after all. I straighten my shoulders. I can do this. “What’s the condition?”
“You tell me why you’re selling your wedding.”