Chapter 19
I’m once again at a table that’s near the barista’s counter of Cotton-Eyed Cup of Joe, a mug of tea in front of me more to blend in with the environment than because I make a habit of purchasing drinks I can make at home for a fraction of the price.
Someone might get suspicious, though, if I sat here not drinking anything.
I feel like a thief casing the joint as I look around the room. I’m not here to steal anything, however. Arguably, I’m here to give back. To give love, more specifically. What greater gift can there be?
After more study and consideration, I’ve decided to attempt a coffee shop meet-cute after all.
Because people are creatures of habit, I know that Kari Turner comes in every Friday morning at eight for her weekly splurge of a white chocolate mocha with two pumps of raspberry syrup.
Meanwhile, Bo Fellowes swings by on his way to work five days a week for a simple black coffee at about the same time.
Making the coffee shop the rendezvous point for their meet-cute was a no-brainer.
The location is not only convenient, but I also don’t have to contrive a reason to get them to the same place at the same time.
I just have to get them to talk to each other.
I wasn’t sure at first if I should match them together.
Based off their reading preferences, their compatibility might be a bit of a stretch, but I’m going with the idea that opposites attract.
It’s a popular trope for a reason, although I’m not quite sure what that reason is.
Wouldn’t two people of opposing sides be more likely to fight than to fall in love?
I mean, I get that in the field of magnetics it’s the positive and negative sides that attract and cling to each other, but relationships aren’t the same as science.
If they were, then we’d have a nice little formula we could work with.
A + B = C.
Girl + Boy = Love.
But it isn’t so cut-and-dried as that. There are too many variables. For instance, A can develop an autoimmune disease that causes physical changes, which in turn makes B no longer find A attractive, reducing the sum of C until it’s one day gone completely.
Or B can say XYZ to multiple As, causing the coefficient to produce a negative instead of a positive integer. Or, in this case, B never has the potential to equal C, especially when added to A.
Not that A wants C with B anyway.
I shake my head and groan, checking the time. 7:55. I need Kari and Bo to get here. I need a distraction. If not, I’m going to do the thing I promised myself I wouldn’t do. I’m going to think about him.
Yeah, because you weren’t already.
I sigh, mentally giving up. Maybe if I let my mind process the night before for the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds then I can purge my thoughts and focus one hundred percent on the match between Kari and Bo without the essence of his memory trying to escape the corners of my mind I’ve been trying to shove him in.
Of course, for this to work, I’m probably going to have to step out of the nice little comfy retreat of denial I’ve made for myself.
I whimper a bit at the thought. Good-bye, fluffy throw pillows that cushioned my head and helped me stuff my ears and hide my face from possible truths right in front of me.
I’ll miss you, mantras of inner rebuttal and justification that made me feel better, even if they were delusions.
I wince as I mentally step outside that comfy corner and brace myself for what I’ve known but haven’t wanted to accept.
Despite my defensive responses and futile attempts at vilifying him, Tai Davis has managed to breach the protective layer I’ve tried to erect around my heart.
Leather-wearing, fast car–driving, tattooed, Granny-would-have-a-heart-attack-if-she-knew Tai Davis.
Do I even have a chance when he refuses to stop pointing his devil-may-care grin in my direction?
It’s only natural that I feel a jolt behind my ribs when his eyes crinkle with a little sunburst when he smiles at me.
Or that the joy that seems to come from a well deep inside him, bubbling up like a spring and then overflowing, draws me in every time and dares me to smile back.
Our similar statures cause my gaze to snag and tangle with his more than it ever has with any other man.
A delicious type of shiver runs along my limbs when I catch him looking at me.
I want to blame it on the fact that it’s been so long since I’ve been the recipient of an appreciative male gaze, and that may be partially true, but I can’t help but think a bigger part is due to the man himself.
Before, I might have said I was like most women and attracted to a taller man, but Tai has proven that untrue.
I find myself mesmerized by his form, by the lines and curves inked into his skin, and by the fact that many of his tattoos are a mystery, covered by the length of his sleeves.
It’s the curiosity of the pictures and what they depict that draws and beckons my attention so often.
The appeal of the unknown, the dangerous, the forbidden.
I hate how much I secretly enjoy when he flirts and teases, my starving soul and wounded pride soaking up the attention.
I have to remind myself that I can’t take what he says—how he calls me beautiful—too much to heart.
His words are like a hot-air balloon, something that will drift away in a strong breeze.
I’m ashamed when I find myself clinging to the strings attached, wishing that it wouldn’t deflate.
That it would last even though I know it won’t.
I’ve let Tai’s attention worm its way past my defenses, but that physical pull he incites in me isn’t enough. It doesn’t change the fact that if he saw me stripped of any of the fake accessories I don, the spark of desire I see in his eyes now would likely be snuffed out.
The front door of the coffee shop opens and a behemoth of a man in steel-toed boots walks in.
Bo Fellowes, everyone. He has a tan Carhartt jacket draped over his broad shoulders, and a plaid flannel shirt peeks out from under the collar.
His jeans are faded and work-worn, ready for another day on a jobsite.
I sit up straight, shooing my thoughts of Tai back to their corner. Now I can concentrate and focus on two people who actually have a shot at real romance.
Bo strides to the counter and orders his usual. I peer around the dining room. There are a couple of people sipping drinks and nibbling baked goods, but not the person I’m looking for. Where is Kari? Of all the days for her to be late or not show up, today isn’t one of them.
Bo tucks his receipt in his back pocket then heads to the opposite end of the café and disappears behind the door of the men’s restroom.
The front entrance opens again, and I sigh with relief.
Kari walks in, a flush to her cheeks as she hurries to the counter to give the barista her drink order.
I take a moment to study her. She’s petite in stature.
If I had to guess, I’d say the top of her head would graze the bottom of my nose.
Which means she’d have to stand on her tiptoes if she even hoped of making it to Bo’s chest. But opposites, right?
If the trope proves true, then these two will have an instant connection the moment their eyes land on each other.
Kari moves away from the counter to wait for her drink. Time to put my plan into action.
“Hey, you can sit down here if you’d like.” I indicate the other chair at my table and give her my most friendly smile.
“Oh. Thanks,” she says as she moves her purse to her lap and sits. “I’ve been going nonstop already this morning, and it’s only eight o’clock. I can’t imagine how the rest of my day will be.”
“Good thing you’re about to have a caffeine pick-me-up,” I say. “Sounds like you’re going to need it.”
“You’re telling me.” Kari’s phone pings in her purse. “Sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m kind of dealing with a situation at the moment so I really need to answer that.”
“No problem.”
Looking over the top of Kari’s bent head, I watch Bo exit the bathroom. Right on time. Now if only—
“Black coffee for Bo.”
Perfect! Giddy expectation percolates in my diaphragm. I can see the next few moments play out in my mind like a scene of a well-crafted book.
I’m going to tell Kari, who is distracted by the text message, that the barista said her name to pick up her coffee.
Kari will thank me, at which point I’ll mentally respond that she has no idea just how much she’ll be thanking me later, as she stands up and approaches the counter.
Of course, Bo will also be there because it’s really his coffee that’s ready. They’ll both reach for the coffee.
At this point, fate can take over because my work is done.
Fate can decide if it wants their hands to bump, making them look at each other and then be hooked by that instant magnetism science is assuring me will happen with these opposites.
Or maybe fate would rather Kari get to the counter first and pick up the coffee cup, at which time Bo will say, Excuse me, but I think that’s my coffee.
They’ll laugh over the mistake then linger, bantering back and forth, magnetism again doing its job and pulling the two together.
I can barely keep the excited anticipation off my face as I clear my throat. “I think they just called your name.”
Kari looks up from her phone. “Really? That was fast. Thanks.” She stands and walks the couple of steps to the counter.
I lean back in my chair, not the least bit embarrassed to be eavesdropping.
In fact, the swell in my chest feels more like pride than humility.
Besides, there’s no way I’m missing out on the romance unfolding before my eyes.
Or ears, rather, as I’m facing in the opposite direction and it would be too obvious if I turned around now just to watch.
“I think that’s mine,” a male voice says behind me.
“Oh, sorry about that. My mistake.”
I grin. Here it comes. The magical moment. The instant connection. The meet-cute.
I strain to hear the next words sure to come from Bo. A compliment. A witty response. A fumbling, awkward comment that Kari will find endearing even if it makes everyone else listening in the vicinity cringe.
But nothing comes. The only sounds filling the space are the constant stream coming from the old-fashioned coffee machine and the clacking of a keyboard as the patron in the corner types away on their laptop.
“Raspberry white chocolate mocha for Kari.”
The front door opens, and I turn my head and watch Bo walk out of the shop. A few seconds later, Kari follows. They both get into their separate vehicles and drive away.
Disappointment sinks in my gut, and my shoulders slump as if the two are tethered together. What went wrong? Where were the sparks? That defies-all-reason fascination with someone not like oneself?
I sigh and stand, tucking a couple of dollar bills under my empty mug as a tip.
Matchmaking might be a little harder than I thought it would be—especially when the love interests aren’t cooperating as they should—but I’m not giving up. Romance merits the effort, and it will be worth it in the end.