Addicted to You - Suzanne Jenkins Page 0,4

sitting down at one close to the door. For a change, she ate without staring at her phone, thinking about the lonely, empty weekend ahead. Making an icon of the weekends like most working people was difficult to do without a social life, but Sofia managed to, only wanting one thing, and that was not to have to get up in the morning. She’d outfitted her bedroom with blackout blinds, thermal drapes, an air filter and a noise machine, cancelling out the noise of a beach full of the small children of vacationing families active on a warm summer Saturday in Southern California.

The lunch crowd started to queue up at the counter, and she people watched for a while as she ate, the dining room filling quickly. The Coke was frosty and she was in mid swig, the can up to her lips, when he walked in, his haunting blue eyes looking around the place and skipping right by her.

That face. Black thick hair that looked recently cut, he had one lock that swept over his forehead. Grinning, to Sofia that hair looked intentional, like he’d combed it that way and sprayed it with hair spray so it wouldn’t move. But as if he were reading her mind, he ran his fingers through his hair to get it off his face, and that one lock fell over his forehead again. She started giggling.

There was a hint of five o’clock shadow on a chiseled jaw. At least six feet tall, he had a body that didn’t quit. The way he moved was slightly familiar, like she’d seen him that day, but she could not place him. He stood in line at the window and, with that familiar back to her, gave his order, a large bowl with white rice and spring mix, cucumber and avocado, tuna and salmon, and the rest was lost to her, because she finally recognized him. Grimacing, he was the panhandler. Even begging for money on the street, he’d had a commanding presence.

As he moved on down the line toward the cashier, Sofia couldn’t take her eyes off him, wondering if he’d just earned his lunch money on the street. Why would someone who looked like him and dressed like him have to beg? Something about him compelled her. Now she was intrigued, her former fear and judgment of the homeless disappearing. He picked up his tray of food and looked around at the full dining room. She was alone at a table for two, so what did she have to lose? Maybe it was her reporter’s instinct kicking in, either that or just nosiness, or something deeper, she couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but she wanted to meet him. And she had just this one chance.

“You can sit here if you’d like,” she boldly said, waving her hand.

He looked at her, and later she’d say that smile of his completely transformed his face.

“Thank you. I will if you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Have a seat,” she said, pulling her tray closer to the edge. “This place was a tomb five minutes ago.”

“Lunchtime at the beach on the first day of summer.”

“Is it? I didn’t even think of that,” she replied, a hot flash of epic proportions flooding over her body, and she held her breath.

June 21. The day Jake died, one year ago.

“June 21,” he said, picking up his napkin. “Kids must have just gotten out of school last week. I noticed families moving in. There goes the peace and quiet.”

“So you’re local?” Sofia finally asked, able to take a deep breath. “I’m Sofia Saint, by the way.”

“Ryan. Ryan Albright.” They waved at each other across the table. “So Sofia Saint, are you local?”

He’d avoided answering her question.

“I’m local,” she said. She was more than local, she’d been raised at the beach. Her parents still lived in the same rambling cliffside mansion where she’d grown up. “What about you?”

“I’m local right now,” he said. She could hear the evasion in his voice. “I mean, I grew up here in North County, but I lived down in San Diego until recently.”

“How’d that come about? I’ll be honest with you, Ryan, I saw you panhandling in front of Wendy’s.”

Watching his face, she felt terrible when she saw the effect her admission had on him. It was like a hand had wiped away the handsome smiling guy with one swipe and left a sad, humiliated human being behind.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you. I’m interested,” she said boldly