miss having control of my life, calling the shots, and knowing what was coming next. Some might say it’s not normal to live that way. Some did say it to me—Blake, in particular since he liked to live by the seat of his pants. We were very different in that respect. But not knowing what tomorrow might bring makes me feel ill.
I slip inside a small, empty coffee shop. It’s eccentric, almost verging on bizarre, which isn’t surprising considering the area. There are actual palm trees growing out of the floor and a pile of sand in the corner. The shop smells like coffee, coconut, and maybe…rum?
A young guy with long blond dreads and a shirt branded with Bob Marley’s face welcomes me in with a fake Jamaican accent. The bizarreness forces warmth through my cheeks, being alone in here and all.
“May I have a large coffee? Regular is fine.”
The guy turns up the music, steel drums echoing through the tiny shop, as he dances in a slow rhythm while fixing my order. I look around the shop and then out the window to see if anyone is watching, but people continue on by as if nothing’s going on.
After ten minutes of discomfort and watching this guy dance, I now have a coconut, papaya-mocha banana latte.
Evidently, this is their regular.
I drop onto a stool against the front window, propping my elbows up on the bar, staring out onto the bustling sidewalk. It’s easier being around a crowd when a window separates us, especially since no one stops to look in. By the looks of it, they all have somewhere to be.
Except him. I squint, trying to determine…
Is that? I tilt my head a bit, taking a look at a different angle. I must be going nuts.
Nope. It is him. I debate tapping on the glass, but my hand moves on its own accord, tapping lightly. He’s almost completely past the shop by the time he looks toward the sound. His eyes meet mine with a smile I now recognize from a dark park against the glow of a flashlight.
His hands drop into his pockets as he turns toward the coffee shop entrance, looking up at the dangling sign before walking in. “Guess I didn’t have you pegged as a Rasta Man Coffee type,” he says.
Note to self: look at the sign before entering random cafés.
“Hey don’t hate on the Rasta, man,” the coffee guy says.
Hayes laughs to be polite, I assume, considering the goofy grin he turns to me with. As he comes closer, I’m almost startled by the features I missed in the dark. It’s kind of like seeing him for the first time. His eyes are like the green of fresh spring grass breaking through a patch of fresh snow. He’s in dark jeans and a semi-fitted grey t-shirt, one that accentuates a body that definitely went unnoticed under the dim lights in the park.
He’s…wow.
“Sort of didn’t know what this place was at first,” I whisper. “And the coffee looks a little scary.”
“I heard they have some fun brownies here too,” he says, laughing softly as he pulls up the stool beside me. He studies me for a second, scratching at his chin, his eyes squinting against his dimpled cheeks. It’s almost like he’s trying not to smile. “It’s funny running into you during the day.”
“What’s so funny about it?” I laugh, feeling a blush creep through my cheeks. His gaze pierces into mine and it makes my breath catch in my throat. What is wrong with me? I wrap my lips around the straw, dying for a quick intermission. Oh my God. This coffee is horrible. So so so bad. Bad enough that I’d spit it out if Hayes wasn’t sitting in front of me, gauging my reaction to this concoction. I pull the straw from my mouth and set the cup back on the table.
“So,” he says, pausing for second. “I have to tell you something.”
“Oh?” Great…either he’s married, or he is, in fact, the creep he’s warned me of.
“I don’t have a filter and I say whatever I’m thinking. It’s gotten me into more trouble than not, but it’s like the words rise in me, and they come out whether I want them to or not.”
The thought of what he’s going to say makes my stomach churn a little. And a little more when he leans toward me, bringing his lips almost close enough to touch my ear. “Felicity,” the breath of his voice tickles