Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76984 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
After placing the pins in her tote, she ran her fingers through her long, shiny black strands. I inched a little closer, catching a whiff of her perfume. Fresh, like a clean breeze—a complete contrast to the grungy odors of the city. It smelled of youth with potential. Maybe even cheerful—a foreign concept since I found most smiles to be just short of a sneer.
I was curious about her and fought the urge to strike up a conversation. We were in New York City where only nut jobs or people from other parts of the planet spoke to strangers without cause—I was neither.
I didn’t do relationships in the traditional boy-meets-girl sense. One innocent conversation might have led down a path I refused to tread. And after my morning, the last thing I needed was to talk to a pissed off female. Though…her anger didn’t show any longer. She wasn’t one to hold a grudge…like me.
As I ran a hand over my jaw, the woman scooted up to the counter and ordered. Once done, she glanced back over her shoulder in my direction. Our eyes locked for a beat or two, and I couldn’t look away.
Pale, luminous skin and raven black hair surrounded her green gaze. Her face had an unusual radiance, or maybe it was the angle of the overhead lighting. Either way, she was stunning.
Before she walked away, her full red lips curled into a subtle smile, like she was saying hello.
“Sir. Sir,” the barista called out, trying to get my attention. I turned toward the counter, trying to remember what the hell I was doing here. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Coffee,” I stammered out. How pathetic.
“All right. Can you be more specific?” The barista tilted her head, squinting her eyes at me. “Are you okay, sir?”
“A bit out of practice.”
I swiped my fingers through my hair and scanned the menu board hanging from the wall behind the counter. All I wanted was to buy a cup of hot coffee and leave unscathed. The word cappuccino sounded right to me, but the size seemed wrong. Tall was the smallest, which made no sense.
“How about a Grande cappuccino?”
“Is that with regular, skim, soy, almond, or coconut milk?”
Hell, why all the choices? I was a second away from turning my phone back on and texting Jared to find out what he always ordered for me.
“Regular?”
“Okay. Your name?”
“Herb.” I had no idea why I gave her the shortened version of my middle name, Herbert. It didn’t faze the barista, though. I bet there were a few Herbs running around the streets of Manhattan.
The barista gave the total, and I threw a ten on the counter and told her to keep the change so I could get my coffee sooner. She thanked me with a smile, then it faded away.
“Is there a problem?” I asked.
“Sir, you need to move down to the other end of the counter and wait for your name to be called.” I followed the barista’s eyes and saw the beautiful young woman I’d avoided in line. Her eyes danced as she held her phone in my direction.
Was she taking a photo of me? I was just a guy ordering coffee, not robbing the place.
This invasion of my privacy was exactly why I didn’t go out in public often or date women I randomly met. There were too many crazies in the world.
4
Maggie
I discovered a new species of male in Manhattan: men in suits. They were everywhere. Walking down the street. Riding the subway. Standing in line for coffee right behind me. The city was a yummy box of man candy, and I had a hard time passing up the sweets.
I appraised the latest suit as he ordered coffee. He was a head taller than everyone else. Light scruff scattered across his tight, slice-of-country-ham jawline in a perfect touch of masculinity.
He wore a midnight blue power suit paired with a sky-colored tie. Gold cufflinks peeked out of his sleeves, with a faceted diamond that needed its own zip code.
I lowered my gaze to the cut of his pants. Tight. Euro. My preferred country when it came to men’s clothing. I loved the sporty Abercrombie look in college, but New York City converted me to brands like Armani and Hugo Boss. Tailored. Slick. Just like him. He resembled an Abercrombie model all grown up, the best of both worlds.
Mr. Armani pushed his fingers through his perfectly styled hair, but every strand resumed its previous position. Was this the kind of sorcery men in suits possessed?
One thing was for sure: his country club confidence mixed with polished Manhattan swagger was a welcome distraction from my disastrous interview. I could have almost laughed about it if the interviewer’s criticism hadn’t hit so close to home.
The woman had introduced herself as I made my way into her office. I gave her my normal elevator pitch on why their company needed me on their payroll. All the hot air coming out of my mouth took less than three minutes. After I’d finished, she’d sat stoned-faced across from me and shook her head. Then she’d reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a business card, and scooted it across the polished wood without saying a peep.