“Hi,” I say. My voice is so small I’m sure I sound like a little barn mouse.
His gaze travels across the rows of kitschy knick-knacks and old books, and finally settles on my blue and yellow polka-dot apron. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
You’re surprised to see me?
He eyes me, confusion clouding his features. “Do you work here?”
I look down at myself, standing behind the counter with a funny apron on. I can see why it would appear so.
I smile up at him. “I’m just helping out a friend.”
He leans in closer, too close. So close, I can smell him. His amazing scent hasn’t changed.
God…
“You’ve been helping out a lot?” he asks, not really waiting for an answer. “You’ve been here quite a few times this past week.”
I jerk back. “How did you know that?” I ask, confused. How would he… “Have you been following me?”
He looks away and bites his bottom lip — a dead giveaway.
I gasp. “That guy. That creepy guy in the grey sedan…what is wrong with you?”
I can suddenly hear the sound of my heart hammering in my ears.
“It’s not what you think,” he says. “I swear. I’ve tried to call you on your cell, but you never answered. And I just wanted to speak with you in person,” he explains with those familiar beautiful soft green eyes. “You are a hard woman to pin down… alone.”
My breath catches at his words. God, the last thing I need right now is Weston Hanson pinning me down. I blink, trying to shake the thought away and take this all in. “So, you were just trying to pin me down…alone.”
He leans over the counter and edges in closer. “Yes,” he whispers. “Exactly. I was hoping to get a hold of you without your girls,” he clarifies, “just so we could talk.”
And suddenly, my eye is drawn to his fitted navy tee, and the smooth curves of his chest. My gaze travels to the smooth skin of his neck and I can almost taste it… smell it. The hint of stubble on his chin is just as it used to be, barely there. I can recall the wonderful feel of it on my skin. And when my stare reaches those delicious lips of his, I shake my head a little, and back the hell up. “So, Mr. Hanson, what can I do for you? What would you like to order?”
His smile is impish. “Nothing. I’m not here to eat.”
“Well, you walk in, you need to buy something,” I scoff. “This place doesn’t run on cheeky smiles and sunshine.”
“Fair enough,” he says and pulls out his wallet. “I’d like a roast beef sandwich and a Coke,” he says, slapping down a twenty on the counter. “Keep the change,” he adds, his eyes fixed on me.
I want to hightail it out of there. I want to be anywhere but here. But I can’t exactly leave, can I? And I can’t very well kick out a paying customer.
“And throw in a pickle,” he adds as he makes his way to one of the bistro-style chairs. I’m brought back to the two pickles I just had, and the life in my belly. I look at him and wonder if this is my chance to tell him.
He sits at one of the small tables, looking as splendid as ever, in fitted light pants, and cool fancy European looking loafers. He stares at me, willing me to come to him.
I grab a can of Coke from the refrigerator and one of the pre-made sandwiches in the display (no freshly made sandwich for him) and work my way from behind the counter. I reluctantly walk towards his table and take a seat across him. “You were kidding about the pickle. You don’t even like pickles. You didn’t really want a pickle, did you?”
A wide smile stretches across his face — the kind of smile he gives me when I’m amusing him. “Yes, Mirella. I was kidding. I was testing you. You have a good memory too.”
We sit in silence for a beat. This is so like him, I can’t help but think. He shows up unexpectedly to speak with me, and he expects me to start the conversation.
“Well,” I start. “You know you’re important when not only do you outsource your cooking, cleaning, car detailing, but also… your creepy stalking.”
He laughs and his eyes don’t leave me.
“Who was that guy anyway?” I ask. “A friend of yours?”