2. Abby
2
ABBY
I feel his forest green eyes on me, even though I barely glimpsed him in my peripheral vision when he entered the café. Luckily, my coworker, Stacy, is on register today; I’m able to hide behind the espresso machine and lose my frazzled thoughts in the morning rush of thirsty caffeine addicts.
But as much as I’d like to remain cushioned in my mindless bubble of steaming milk and pouring out familiar latte art, I’m always aware when he comes in for his daily black Americano.
His name is Dane.
That’s what it says on his cup every morning when he places his order like clockwork at eight-oh-five AM.
The name suits him: it’s a hot name for an insanely gorgeous man.
He’s so beautiful that I can barely look at him, much less hold eye contact.
Sometimes, I indulge myself when he’s chatting with whoever is on register. He’s charming, with a brilliant white smile that flashes in contrast with the dark, perfectly manicured stubble that covers his anvil-sharp jawline. Midnight-black hair is artfully swept back from his heartbreaking face, longer on top and cropped close at the sides. Heavy brows that might be too harsh on another man accent his boldly masculine features.
Except for that soft, sensual mouth. It would be almost feminine if it weren’t for his otherwise rugged perfection.
Stacy heaves a dreamy sigh as soon as he greets her. His deep voice rolls through the small café, his English accent enhancing his refined aura.
He moves past the register to stand at the end of the bar, waiting expectantly for his Americano. I keep my eyes on the milk I’m currently steaming for a flat white and try my best to ignore the shivery sensation elicited by his attention on me.
“Good morning, Abigail.”
His voice is shockingly intimate, and the smooth cadence caresses my name.
Dane is friendly with everyone. The accent and deep timbre are seductive enough to make any woman swoon; his allure has nothing to do with me personally.
“Hi.” I manage a breezy greeting but fix my attention on the swan I’m attempting to pour onto the top of the flat white.
Through sheer force of will, I keep my lips curved in my usual affable smile despite the fact that my soul is shattered into jagged pieces that cut at my heart. I brush my fingers over the small unicorn badge that I keep pinned to my apron. The pink and gold enamel is smooth and familiar beneath my shaky touch. I take half a heartbeat to connect with my lavender cupcake and smiling iced coffee pins, too, until my falsely bright grin matches their whimsical demeanor.
My outward disposition is my customary pleasant smile once again, but I still can’t bring myself to meet Dane’s stunning eyes. His gaze is keen enough to cut through the facade I’m desperately working to maintain. I’ve crafted it through sheer determination and stubbornness over the last two years, and it’s so solid now that I mostly believe it myself.
Until last night wrecked it, the traumatic experience exposing the darkness at my core that no number of sunny smiles can dissipate.
“Sorry, it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano,” I apologize. “We’re really busy this morning.”
Truthfully, it’s a fairly typical morning for everyone in the Sunny Side Café.
Except for me.
Not after what happened to me.
Proprietary hands on my body. A terrifying, ferocious growl that barely sounds human. A macabre white skull standing out in sharp contrast to the black ski mask.
My stomach lurches, and I swallow quickly to quell the surge of nausea. I focus on the lingering bitter taste of the espresso I quickly downed a few minutes ago, when I’d been running late for my shift.
The scent of coffee fills my senses, the familiar smell permeating the air and reminding me of the drink orders that are piling up to my left.
I look at the swan that I created on the flat white. The stylized bird is bright white against the espresso-tinged foam that surrounds it.
A harsh but familiar noise starts up behind me. Stacy is griding a bag of coffee beans that a customer purchased at the register.
“Abigail?”
I suck in a shocked breath when my name in his lilting accent hits me like a gut punch.
My mind scrambles, and I struggle to continue practicing what I remember of the grounding technique I learned from the single therapy session I did in college.
Taste, smell, see, hear…
I’m forgetting one of my senses. There’s something else I should focus on to complete the act of grounding myself.
But all I can think about is that bright white skull glowing through the darkness of my apartment in the middle of the night. The fear that tasted like copper on my tongue. The abject horror when my body?—
“Are you all right?”
Gentle fingers graze the back of my hand, harnessing my full attention.
Touch.
Dane is touching me. I feel the softness of his skin brushing mine, lighting up my nerve endings with awareness. My fine hairs stand on end, and a shudder races through me.
After my ordeal, I should be repulsed by a man’s proximity. But the sparks that dance over my strangely chilled skin are subversively alluring.
How many nights have I fantasized about this stunning man when I’m alone in my twin-sized bed?
The time spent pleasuring myself while thinking about his sexy accent must’ve warped my brain, because my core heats for him even as my stomach turns.
I jerk my hand away as though he’s burned me; I’m horrified at my twisted reaction to his tender touch. The flat white goes flying, and hot, espresso-darkened milk splatters his crisp white shirt just before the mug smashes on the polished hardwood floor.
Even the curse word that drops from his lush lips sounds sensual in his cultured accent.
“I’m so sorry!” Mortification washes through me in a searing wave. Mercifully, it burns away my trauma response.
I grab a clean cloth, and before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve rounded the coffee bar. I’m standing in front of Dane. My frenzied focus is fixed on the ugly brown stain that mars his perfectly tailored shirt. I press the cloth against the mark, and it soaks up some of the coffee while leaving the brown splatter clearly visible.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeat, dabbing at the stain as though it will make any difference.
Long fingers ensnare my wrists, halting my panicked blotting. My entire body goes rigid, and I freeze like a spooked doe.
“It’s fine.” His voice is soft and soothing, as though he senses my spike of fear at the masculine shackles around my wrists.
But he doesn’t immediately release me. His thumbs rest directly on my pulse points, and I’m not sure if my blood is thrumming through my veins from panic or from the hit of intense arousal at his firm hold.
“It’s okay. Breathe, Abigail.”
A scent like salt-kissed cedarwood with a hint of peppery spice suffuses my senses. I must be imagining the slight tightening of strong, sure fingers on my wrists—my jittery mood is messing with my perception of reality.
“Oh my god, Dane!” Stacy appears beside us, her tone sharp with disapproval that’s directed at me. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just coffee,” he reassures her. “I have time to change before work.”
He’s still touching me.
He shouldn’t be touching me. This prolonged contact is making my stomach flip and my hands shake, even as my core heats with feminine awareness of the beautiful man who stars in my fantasies.
As though he senses my mounting distress, he slowly eases his fingers from my chilled skin, his thumbs brushing my pulse points one final time.
My arms drop to my sides—a marionette with her strings cut.
It’s all I can do to keep my knees from folding. A visceral sense of relief? Or loss?
“Look at me, Abigail.” That same soft but compelling tone in his delicious accent.
My eyes snap to his, and I’m locked in his steady gaze. This close, I can see the striations of hunter green that deepen the verdant forest shade of his eyes. His irises darken at the edges with an almost black ring that makes the rich hues vibrant despite the more muted color palette. Thick, black lashes form ebony frames around his remarkable eyes, enhancing the intensity of his stare.
“It’s all right,” he says, a low, intimate promise meant just for me.
“But I might’ve burned you.” The words drop from my numb lips. I’m so cold, despite the heat flashing beneath the surface of my frosted skin.
That lush mouth tilts in an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than anything you could throw at me.”
“But your shirt?—”
“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” He cuts me off, still speaking to me in that slow, reassuring cadence. “If you want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”
It’s not a question, and he’s so cajoling that I almost say yes before I can think better of it.
But my chest is too tight to say anything, iron bands clamping around my lungs. The residual shock of his touch hits me like a north wind wave, and memories of the assault slam into me.
A gloved hand shackles my wrists, pinning me to the wall. The peeling paint in my aging apartment flakes beneath my cheek, and a hard, broad body cages me in from behind. His other hand is clamped over my nose and mouth. I can’t scream. I can’t breathe…
“Abby?” The frosty disapproval in Stacy’s voice melts into honeyed concern. “You don’t look so good. If you’re sick, you need to go home.”
“Come on,” Dane says when I don’t answer right away. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
His sure fingers touch my elbow, and I simply allow him to steer me away from the mess I made with the flat white.
Just like last night, I don’t try to resist; my body softens and submits.
I let it happen.
Something must be broken in my brain, because I lack the fight-or-flight instinct—when threatened, my body does neither.
Not that Dane is a threat. The stunning man who frequents the café every morning is a suave gentleman. Even though he’s still touching me, the contact isn’t remotely violent. And it’s not entirely unwanted.
I shouldn’t be enjoying a man’s nearness when I’m clinging to sanity by my fingernails, but I can’t help edging toward his powerful body as we step outside into the Carolina heat. A soft ocean breeze barely cuts through the thick, humid air, and sweat instantly beads on my chilled brow. I can’t seem to regulate my body temperature.
Maybe I am going to be sick, after all.
The prospect of vomiting in front of him is far too mortifying. I can’t bear the thought of coming completely unraveled around the man I’ve secretly lusted after for months.
I close my eyes for a moment and draw in a deep breath through my nose. I inhale the scent of Dane’s expensive cologne again: spicy, salt-kissed cedarwood. He’s close enough that it blots out the slightly briny smell of the harbor and the musky scent of the carriage horse clopping by on the cobbled street.
His fingers finally drop from my elbow, only to skim up my arm so that his hand rests on my shoulder.
I’ve often admired his hands when he grasps the coffee cups that I offer him every morning. More than once, those long, deft fingers and the thoroughly masculine, broad palms have shown up in my paintings. The secret paintings that I’ve never shown to anyone.
His hand is heavier than I imagined it might be, and his fingertips press into my shoulder ever so slightly, as though his firm but careful grip will somehow hold me together when I’m on the verge of shattering. My composure is already in tatters, my cheery mask cracked to reveal the anguish inside.
“Breathe, Abigail,” he intones. “Just breathe.”
I obey and inhale more of his intoxicating scent.
“Why do you call me that?” I ask on the exhale before I can think better of it.
His dark brows knit together. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
I gesture at my name badge that’s pinned to my black apron. “Everyone calls me Abby.”
He flashes me a dazzling smile that knocks the precious oxygen from my lungs. “I suppose I’m still a bit more formal than the locals. Bad habit from back home.”
I don’t bother to tell him that my local family raised me to be highly formal as well.
I never talk about them. If I can avoid it, I try not to even think about them.
“You’re from England, right?” I ask instead, happy for the distraction from the churning in my gut.
He nods. “From York originally. The old York.”
“Oh,” I say, somewhat inanely. “What brought you to South Carolina?”
His smile turns a touch rueful. “You don’t have to make small talk with me, Abigail. How are you feeling?”
In this moment, I decide that I love the way he says my full name. I don’t want him to call me Abby. Despite the formality, it feels intimate; something I share only with him.
My heart gives a weak flutter, and the giddy reaction is so much sweeter than the horrific shredding sensation that’s tormented me all morning. I try again to lift my lips at the corners, and this time, my facial muscles cooperate.
I smooth my apron and touch the unicorn pin like a talisman: a reminder of the whimsical, joyful energy I choose to embody in the new life I’ve established for myself in Charleston.
“Better, thanks,” I reply truthfully.
“Good.”
God, that smile. He’s always been too painfully perfect to look directly at him, but now that I’m caught in the full force of that cocky grin, I can’t tear my gaze away.
“Are you feeling well enough to go out to dinner with me tonight?”
“What?”
His hand is still on my shoulder, grounding me far more effectively than the therapeutic technique of focusing on my five senses. Despite the fact that I no longer feel like I’m going to be sick, my brain is still too scrambled to fully process the fact that he’s asking me out.
For months, it’s felt safe to fantasize about him because he’s too gorgeous and refined to ever consider as a real possibility. He’s an untouchable prince, but I’ve crafted my secret rakish villain to wear his face when I’m alone in my bed. This invitation for a date seems impossible.
Not to mention, he’s a customer, and I shouldn’t date customers.
“You heard me,” he admonishes, but his voice lilts with arrogant amusement. “Have dinner with me.”
His grip on my shoulder tightens ever so slightly.
Gloved hands on my body, roughly groping and exploring my curves as though he has every right. A cloying scent of cheap amber aftershave makes the air sickeningly thick, so that it clogs in my constricted throat. That awful skull leers at me as he takes what he wants…
I jerk away from Dane, wrenching free from his hold. My stomach hollows out at the loss even as I gasp in a breath of humid air.
I can’t be near a man right now, especially not the man I’ve secretly fantasized about. His allure is messing with my head when I need to hold the shattered fragments of my soul together in the wake of a horrific attack.
No one knows what happened to me last night. I barely speak to my family anymore, and my friends don’t need to know my shame.
There’s no point calling the cops when the masked invader made me orgasm. Some part of me got off on it. The dark pleasure had been keen enough to cut deeper than the knife that’d threatened me.
I’m too fucked up, too broken, to be with a charming man like Dane.
“I can’t,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry.”
He calls after me, but before my name fully leaves his sensual lips, I spin on my heel and duck back into the café to finish my shift.
I act as though this is a normal day, and I manage to lose myself in rote, mundane tasks. Tonight, I’ll get drunk with Franklin so that I won’t be tempted to paint.
Because if I pick up a brush, I know the erotic horror that will spill out onto my canvas.