around you.” She gestures at the other tables. I survey the dozen or so other patrons seeking shelter from the rain. “They barely take the time to look up from their cell phones, too focused on how many likes they got on their latest Instagram post or story.”
“Then I guess I’m not most people.”
“I guess you’re not.”
Silence stretches between us as I stare at her. I could drink her in for days and still not get my fill, something about her refreshing. In a world full of roses, she’s a sunflower, unique and filled with light.
I extend my hand toward her. “I’m Weston. Or Wes.”
She studies it cautiously, then places her own in mine. “Londyn.”
“Londyn.” My mouth tests how her name rolls off my tongue as I wrap my fingers around her delicate skin.
I study our joined hands, a dull vibration settling low in my belly. It’s only a handshake, something people do dozens of times a day, but the way the tiny hairs on my body stand on end, my heartbeat kicking up again, I know it’s not merely a handshake between two strangers. That an invisible tether draws me to her.
“Like the city?” Custom dictates I should drop my hold on her, but a larger force keeps my hand entwined with hers.
“Yes. But spelled with a y.”
“Well, Londyn with a y, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hold her gaze another moment, my pointer finger caressing the callouses on her palm, which only intrigues me even more. Most women I know wouldn’t be caught dead with so much as a scrape on their hands. But it’s obvious Londyn has no problem getting her hands dirty, so to speak. I’m about to ask about the job she just lost when she abruptly yanks her hand from mine and shoots to her feet.
“I should go.”
“Go?” I stand, my six-two frame towering over her by at least a half foot, making me estimate her to be around five-eight. I glance out the window to see the downpour hasn’t let up at all. “It’s still raining.”
“I’ll be fine.” Reaching into her wallet, she pulls out a five-dollar bill. “Here.” She shoves it at me. “For the tea.”
I wave her off. “That’s not necessary.”
“I prefer not having any debts. I can’t repay you for saving my ass, as it were, but I can repay you for the tea. So here…” She sets the bill on the table. “Take it. Or put it in the tip jar. Better yet, give it to Omar.”
I scrunch my brows, unsure I heard her correctly. “Omar?”
“The homeless guy who’s always hanging out by the exit of the garage. I don’t care what you end up doing with the money. At least it will be off my tab.”
This woman becomes more captivating with every second. Since I moved back to Atlanta from Boston two years ago, not one person has admitted to knowing the name of the homeless guy I buy coffee and food for whenever I can. He’s the reason I came down to the coffee shop today. To get him something to keep him warm in this rain.
“Let me at least walk you,” I suggest. “Make sure you get to your car safely.”
She shakes her head, retreating from me and toward the front door. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. Luckily, there are no more unruly crosswalks between here and the garage.” She presses her palm against the door, about to push it open.
“Wait!” I call out in desperation, hating the idea of never seeing this woman again.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder, a single brow raised.
“Can I get your phone number?”
The entire shop goes silent, my question seeming to echo. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have drawn so much attention to us, but I can’t ignore the feeling in my gut that I’ll regret letting her walk away.
“I-I mean…” I flounder, words escaping me now that I have her attention, as well as the attention of everyone else here. “To check on you.” My voice comes out assured. More assured than I feel inside. “I’d feel better if I can at least text to make sure you got home okay.”
Her gaze shifts from me as she chews on her lower lip. It’s just a phone number, but by the indecision filling the lines of her face, you’d think I asked her to pick her favorite Beatle or what three movies she’d take if she were abandoned on a deserted island.