the tattoo shop, which would’ve been the most logical place to have seen him.
Then again, he didn’t look much like the tattoo type. He was too clean cut for that, in a very male model kind of way.
Damn it. Yes, I was stereotyping—something I’d been trying to work on for some time now. I’d learned long ago not to do that. In my line of work, I’d realized that people of all walks got tattoos. College kids, kindergarten teachers, fathers of three, Girl Scout leaders… They all got ink. These days, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a nun stroll into my shop.
But this guy… I don’t think I’d seen him at the shop.
Maybe it was the bad boy thing he was rocking that seemed familiar. Scruffy jaw, tousled black hair, faded jeans, black hoodie covering what looked to be a rather impressive upper body—he could’ve easily been one of the many I’d seen over the years traipsing around downtown Austin, attempting to make a name for themselves in the music world.
Along with all that, even with the scruffy, rough edge I saw, there was something beautiful about him. I honestly had no idea what it was about him specifically, though.
Still, I had no idea where I might’ve seen him. Since this was only the third time I’d come in to this particular coffee shop, I doubted I’d seen him here, but again, it was possible.
While I’d been scribbling x’s and o’s between the lines, I’d noticed him looking at my hands and thought for a minute that he was going to ask about my tattoos—something a lot of people did—but when I subtly let him see that I’d caught him, he’d snapped his attention back to his journal, looking as though he was waiting for the words to write themselves.
He held his pen at the ready—in his left hand, because that was one of those oddities that I typically noticed—but he wasn’t writing anything. After he’d scrawled a couple of words, which I couldn’t read from where I sat, he spent the rest of the time staring at it.
I wondered what he was working on.
Was he a teacher prepping his lesson plan? Nah. He didn’t give off the teacher vibe.
An executive planning to write his resignation? Hmm. Maybe.
A son looking to write a letter to his dad? That was possible.
A scorned ex-boyfriend planning to write a death threat to the woman who’d broken his heart? Feasible. But I doubted it. He had more of a player vibe going on.
My mind went all kinds of crazy thinking of what he intended to write. And I felt a pang of sympathy when he continued to scowl at the paper, apparently at a loss as to what he needed to pen on it.
I knew how he felt. For the past twenty minutes, I’d been playing tic-tac-toe. With myself. Because, of course, that wasn’t weird.
Granted, as I’d told my mysterious table-neighbor, it really was good for my ego because I won every time, but it wasn’t much of a challenge. Still, it was the only thing I could seem to do other than doodle random crap all over a blank page.
What I’d been hoping for when I walked into the coffee shop this morning was to have some sort of divine intervention and get my muse back—which, at this point, had been missing for more months than I was willing to admit. Instead, I got a bunch of straight lines and some circles. It’d been a long damn time since I’d drawn anything worth a shit.
So much for inspiration.
The front door to the coffee shop opened, and the brisk January breeze whipped inside, fluttering my papers and sending the napkin I’d brought with me to the floor. As I reached down to get it, I knocked heads with the handsome pen-wielding man.
“Ow, shit.” With a wince, I pulled back quickly, hand on my head.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he said, rubbing his head as he held the napkin out for me.
I massaged the sore spot while I watched him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, a wealth of concern in those few words. “I swear I’m not generally this abusive to strangers.”
I couldn’t help but smile at that. Well, that and the deep cadence of his voice. It was sexy. Rough. Like he’d just rolled out of bed.
“I’m sure it won’t leave a bruise for too long.”
“What is it?” He nodded toward the napkin he was still holding.
I looked down at the frayed piece of paper, frowning. “Nothing.”