The car came out of nowhere.
Actually, it was a cab, and it slammed on its brakes, skidding long black tire tracks on the asphalt while laying on the horn.
I bounded through the intersection in my yoga pants and Nikes and turned to give the driver the one-finger salute. He saluted right back and then continued on his way.
I did, too.
This time, I made sure to look both ways before crossing any streets because Chicago was a fricking hazard to my health. I loved it, though.
I loved the buildings scraping the sky, the murky smog that lingered close to the horizon, and the near-constant noise and activity. It made me feel alive.
In a world where I was constantly jeopardizing that status, I guess that was pretty important.
As I stepped onto the curb, I noticed the man huddled between twin shops on the corner. My heart squeezed a little in relief.
“Bennie,” I chastised, as I bent to give him a twenty-dollar bill. “Where were you last week?”
He smiled up at me, his clothes reeking of stale cigarettes and a life of street-dwelling.
“Hey Abbie, I got things to do. You know that.” He took the money and thanked me. “You’re good to me.”
“I worry about you,” I told him. “Don’t disappear on me. And don’t go spending that on your girlfriends, Bennie.”
He nodded, eyeing the money and I opened the door to my favorite café with a jingle of the bells. Though downtown Chicago had plenty to offer, I was perfectly happy spending half of my Saturday morning in my neighborhood just outside the city. Sunny Side was a local gem that sat a few streets over from my three-flat in Wicker Park. Nestled in my favorite plush and overstuffed pleather chair, I worked on a kitschy macaroni-topped table. I found I got more done on that wobbly table than I ever could in the three-story townhouse I’d spent a fortune remodeling. I could have saved thousands and ordered three gourmet lattes a day, but when winter set in, I knew that office could be a refuge. For the moment, I was perched in the homey surroundings of the café.
Large white bulbs hung from the ceiling while below, abandoned books and crates acted as makeshift partitions between the varied sized tables. The interior walls were lined with endless rows of chipped and overused coffee cups with a catchphrase to match every mood.
I inhaled the smell of freshly-ground coffee beans wafting through the cafe as I sipped on my much-needed latte in my borrowed mug. It read I Do What I Want with a pencil sketch of a cat stretching its middle fingers. I hadn’t slept much last night; instead, I freaked myself out with every strange noise or inkling, just like I had done every night for the past year. I envisioned every neighbor in a thirty-mile radius as being a serial killer or rapist, and then I watched Snapped to distract myself, which instead, only perpetuated my obsessive paranoid cycle.
It was a problem.
My paranoia and my suspicions that everyone had a motive that included deception or worse.
And Sunny Side, with its never-ending fountain of caffeine, had become my refuge every Saturday. The place I could come to and pretend I was a functioning part of society where my issues didn’t exist.
I dove into my Saturday routine, sticking an earbud into my ear and immersing myself in the safety of the public place and my private world of music.
It was hard to say how much later it was when I felt like I was being watched.
My ability to leave reality behind the door of the café was absolute. It very well could’ve been hours.
I felt it, though.
The stare.
Hesitantly, I looked up.
Then froze.
The Bible states that God created the world in six days. So, when it came to time relevance and divine creation, it stood to reason that the Creator took an extra millisecond on the man watching me sip my third latte.
Now, I’m not that kind of woman—the kind who trips over herself and fumbles through her words when a handsome man glances her way. I learned that lesson in a very hard way, and I hadn’t forgotten.
To the frustration of everyone close to me and with the stubbornness that any mule would be proud of, I had refused to notice any specimen of the opposite sex ever since.
Forget that he had rugged, supremely masculine features—chiseled, etched, sculpted, and surreal. Add that to unmistakable height and broad stature, apparent by the way he dwarfed the small, round table that sat in front of him. Mix that with full lips and an impressive set of white teeth. All of this confirmed on the seventh day, God rested, and it was good.
But what elicited a storm in my soul and calm in my heart were his ocean-green eyes.
He smiled. Grinned, actually.
Dear Lord. That smile…
I looked away. Focus. You have work to do. You don’t know him. He could be a psycho.
I sipped at my latte, but the cup was now empty.
Internally, I compiled a mental list of flaws so I wouldn’t look up at him again.
Neither of us could look away. Then he flashed that all-knowing smile again. Shit!
Abbie. God. Get a grip. He’s probably a skirt-chaser and nothing more.
He wiped the top of his nose. Twice. Subconsciously, I did the same and came away with the remnants of my caramel latte.
Damn it!
It was all over my nose and chin, and I knew that my hair was a wreck. And that was a kind assessment of my appearance. It was slob day—my Saturday ritual—and slob days were non-negotiable.
I deserved them, and so did every other woman on the planet. No makeup, no calorie counting, no responsibility. It was my this-is-the-face-I-was-born-with day. All of that, and the fact that I’d nabbed my favorite table was the whipped cream on top. The guy sitting across from me seemed like the possibility of a cherry. Too bad I’d transferred from the risk-taking department a year ago and into self-preservation. It was a pretty boring department.
Even so, his smile was almost enough to make me want to play roulette.
My own thoughts were whoring me out as if I needed to be rump ready.
Get a grip, girl. It’s possible that he’s a crazy person. He could sew women’s flesh into blankets as souvenirs of his kill list. He could be imagining a new skin quilt with your name all over it.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I had been so careful for three-hundred and sixty-five long days. Annoyingly, no one else in my life had issues and they were moving forward in leaps and bounds. Then there was me, afraid to even say hello to anyone new, and then all of a sudden, BAM!
One look from that fine-ass man in a room full of caffeine fiends and I was ready to abort my morals and any internal warning that kept me at a distance.
All of them, poof, gone because of that damned smile. It stretched wide, enhancing the most alluring and deeply etched dimples I’d ever seen. They were the real thing, nestled in the corners of his perfect mouth. They didn’t make him boyishly handsome. They were dead sexy. Few men could pull that off.
He wasn’t testing the waters, either; he was drinking me in with zero hesitation.
Bold.
Bold quiltmaker!
With a kicking pulse, I met his stare, and we appreciated each other, though I wasn’t sure what he saw when he looked at me. It was too late to wipe the chin goo off without being obvious. I was positive my lime green nightly face mask still tinted my skin. Heat crept up my neck as he took in my Northwestern hoodie, black leggings, and Nikes. I hadn’t run a mile, but I looked like I had, and that was a bonus. Though if he saw me run, well, that would be the real tragedy.
I have a kind of running affliction. It’s like some spastic part of me can’t believe my body is doing it for exercise, rather than running for my life. From the way my friend, Bree explained it, my run looked like the way Julia Louis-Dreyfus danced on Seinfeld, except . . . worse. She said when I run, my arms look like they’re giving my body a vigorous pep talk.
I’m a bit bow-legged too, so there was that. But this man knew none of that. His smile told me he didn’t mind my lazy appearance, caramel-covered chin, or alien colored skin. From looks alone, he was the type of man you dressed up for. And if Old Jade Eyes and I had a future, he was staring at worst case scenario and smiling at it.
He was dressed in knee-length, black mesh sports shorts and a gray hoodie. His Nikes looked new.
He lifted an eyebrow, as my Mac pinged with an invitation for AirDrop. His name was no longer a mystery, and I felt a little panic creep in.
Cameron’s Mac: Hi.
I looked above my laptop and took a deep breath before I accepted his invitation.
Abbie’s Mac: Hi.
Abbie, he’s going to wear your skin! I tried to ignore my inner voice.
Cameron’s Mac: I saw you with the homeless guy.
Abbie’s Mac: Ok?
He took a sip out of his Real Men Love Pomeranians mug and shrugged before he typed.
Cameron’s Mac: So, that was nice of you. Most people in the city just walk on by.
Abbie’s Mac: Oh. Most people do walk past Bennie. But he’s different and I’m not most people.
He lifted a brow and bit his lip.
Cameron’s Mac: I see that.
Cameron’s Mac: Want to have your next cup with me?
Say yes, say yes! It’s only coffee!
Abbie’s Mac: No, thank you.
You idiot.
His brows drew tight with his frown.
Cameron’s Mac: Sure? How about some breakfast?
My pulse raced with the memory of my last reaction to that type of attention and the consequences, and I answered without another thought.
Abbie’s Mac: No, thanks.
His chuckle was deep and covered me, even across the space between us. He bit his full bottom lip as he typed, his smirk still intact.
Fuck. Me. Damn it, Abbie!
Cameron’s Mac: Well, I guess today is not my day.
Abbie’s Mac: That’s all you’ve got?
I had no clue why I sent that message . . . why I was bothered that he didn’t try harder. Just that fucking smirk. It was sexy as hell.
He read my message and shrugged as he typed.
Cameron’s Mac: You seem to enjoy coffee. I don’t have an agenda. You’re beautiful, I noticed. I wanted to drink coffee with you. You said no. I’m going to scrape up the rest of my pride now and head out.
He closed his laptop and stood while I deflated. Damn it. He was being nice. Since when are guys just . . . nice?
Am I a man hater? Have I become that woman?
I spoke up as he slipped his computer into a worn leather bag.
“I’m sorry,” I offered in quick apology. “I was expecting some horrible line or screwed up proposition. The web, messaging, anything that has to do with technology has been hazardous for me. I’ve seen enough unsolicited dick pics for a lifetime. I was just being cautious.” And that was the truth. But I’d said it aloud in verbal vomit. Did I really say “dick pics” out loud?
He chuckled again as he looked down at me from where he stood, then grinned.
“Today isn’t the right day.” The husky baritone of his voice matched the silky hue of his eyes, which seemed to darken as he looked me over.
“No?” I asked in a whisper as I sized up his six-foot-plus frame and imagined the possibilities.
“No,” he said. “Maybe we can not have coffee again sometime?”
He’d tapped out with a simple ‘no’ from me. He couldn’t have been that interested in the first place.
I couldn’t deny the disappointment welling up in my ovaries.
“Okay.” I lifted the last syllable when he didn’t press further.
Cameron pulled out his wallet and set some money on his table then walked over to mine and did the same.
“At least let me buy your next cup.”
After setting the bills down, he stood over me briefly and I caught his scent—purely masculine. I inhaled as much as I could without being obvious. He didn’t smell like a psycho.
Cameron picked up his man–bag while I pictured running my fingers through his messy, inches thick, dark-brown hair.
Don’t let him leave. Tell him you aren’t that big of a bitch. But that would seem desperate. You aren’t desperate. But you are horny. Omg, are you horny??
As if reading my thoughts, I caught another flash of his teeth and had to bite my cheek to keep my reaction in check.
“I’ll see you.”
“Yeah, see you. And thanks,” I said to his retreating back, an octave louder than necessary. “For the coffee,” I added. Outside the window, Cameron bent and exchanged words with Bennie before sticking some cash in his hand.
Well, Abbie. Guess you’ll just have to wait until the next time you roll out of bed and a beautiful man hits on you. Should happen again, you IDIOT!
Once again, my hesitance had cost me. And I couldn’t help but feel like this time it cost me big.
Sagging into my seat, I continued to stare in his direction, watching those broad shoulders walk out of my life.