Finding Mr. Write (Business of Love #5) - Ali Parker Page 0,7

place in New York. We can order some greasy-ass pizza.”

“And go to Central Park,” Riley added.

“And Times Square,” Madison gushed.

“And Broadway,” I added.

The girls squealed and we hugged each other fiercely. They smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar.

We pulled apart. “Okay,” I said more to myself than to them. “This is it, ladies. Thank you for driving me. Thank you for the last two years. We’ll talk soon, okay?”

“Okay,” they said in unison.

They held hands and watched me go, and I looked back over my shoulder before stepping through the doors to blow them a kiss. They caught it, returned it, and nodded for me to go.

So I went.

The airport smelled like French fries and new luggage. I was immediately insecure about my set as I loaded it onto a cart to haul it all to my airlines check-in counter. I moved slowly forward in the line, checked my bags, got my boarding pass, and moved to security, where I was scolded for trying to go through the metal detector without taking my sweatshirt off.

I pulled it off over my head and went through in my white tank top and hoped nobody was staring.

Like I said, I was a girl who liked comfort.

Consequently, I hadn’t worn a bra.

Once I made it through security, I found my gate. I had an hour and a half before my plane took off and that felt like torture. I had to be careful with my money because I only had enough saved to last me two months without income. Several coffee shops and restaurants near my gate tempted me to spend money on a snack or treat of some sort.

I told myself I would have to wait until I got to New York. I could order a free coffee on the plane.

But that caramel smell…

My mind convinced my mouth that I could taste the caramel of someone’s latte being made. I could hear the steaming wand of the espresso machine humming in the metal milk steamer and I was reminded of my old job. I didn’t miss the customers, but I missed the ritual of preparing lattes and cappuccinos.

My mouth had started to water. I looked over my shoulder longingly at the coffee shop.

“No,” I said out loud with a shake of my head. “Resist.”

Willpower had never been one of my strong suits. And resisting caffeine? Now that was a true test of self-control. Every second carried temptation of caramel drizzle on whipped cream or peppermint swirled in with dark chocolate mocha goodness and—

“Excuse me?”

I looked up. A tall, hipster-looking man stood in front of me. He wore a gray cardigan with brown buttons and a mustard-color scarf. His glasses were perched precariously on the tip of his nose and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. If I had to give him a name, I’d have called him Ezra.

“Yes?”

Ezra licked his lips and nodded at the seat beside me. He held two coffees. “Is someone sitting there?”

“No.”

He waited expectantly for a moment, clearly hoping I’d invite him to join me. I didn’t, but he sat anyway. The smell of his citrus cologne flooded my nose as he leaned over and handed me one of the coffees.

“I noticed you kept scoping out the coffee joint,” he said. “Thought maybe you needed a fix before your flight. Wasn’t sure what your poison was, so I went with hazelnut. Was I close?”

Not even a little bit, buddy.

I accepted the coffee anyway. It seemed rude not to after all the trouble he’d gone through assuming I wanted to have a forced conversation with a stranger over suspicious coffee. “Thank you,” I said.

“What’s your name?”

“Briar.”

“I’m Brooks.”

I thought Ezra suited him better.

I sipped the coffee and let it sit on my tongue. Could you taste deceit? Was this guy trying to pull one over on me? Was I being reckless, sitting there with a stranger and ignorantly accepting his gesture of coffee?

Who cares? It’s caffeine, and it’s free.

“What’s waiting for you in New York?” Brooks asked.

“Endless possibilities.”

He arched an appreciative eyebrow and leaned back in his seat so he could cross one leg over the other. His jeans were purposefully torn and distressed. “Ah, but of course. I thought you looked like a dreamer when I saw you. You dreamed of coffee, and you got it. What do you dream of in New York?”

I contemplated his question. Maybe this Brooks character wasn’t so bad. So long as he didn’t end up sitting next to me on the flight,