11. Abby
11
ABBY
D ane enters the café, and my cheeks heat with a mix of embarrassment and regret. Our date had held so much promise, and the sour ending has left me feeling awfully hollow ever since.
I’m fucked up, broken deep inside. It’s why I haven’t allowed myself to date for two years, and I’ve found my sexual release in anonymous online erotica.
Going out with Dane was a mistake for so many reasons.
So, I avoid eye contact while he’s ordering at the register and brace myself for the moment when I’ll have to hand over his Americano with a polite smile. I can’t quite roll the stiffness from my shoulders, and my rigid posture persists as I grind the espresso for his coffee.
“Good morning, Abigail.”
It’s the same smooth, suave tone he uses with me every morning, that enticing accent caressing my name.
“Hi.” I attempt a breezy but perfunctory greeting. “Your Americano will be ready in one minute.”
The rich espresso is already pouring into the paper cup. All I have to do is top it off with hot water within the next twenty seconds.
“Take your time,” he replies smoothly. “I’m going to sit in today.”
I blink and can’t help glancing up at him in surprise. Our eyes lock.
“But you always take your coffee to-go,” I blurt. “Do you want a mug?”
It’s an inane question, and it comes out on autopilot after years as a barista.
His smile takes on an indulgent twist. The smirk is almost arrogant, but he’s so unbearably handsome that it doesn’t come off as overly cocky.
“It’s fine as-is,” he reassures me. “I decided to sit in and read for a while this morning. It’s a bit wet outside.” He gestures one of those big, masculine hands in the direction of the glass frontage, indicating the stormy day. Rain falls in warm, fat drops as thunder rolls gently in the distance.
Lightning will be striking over the ocean right now. Longing tugs at my chest. I’d so much rather be painting the tempest than pouring coffee this morning.
I blow out a soft sigh and turn my attention back to Dane’s Americano, grateful that his comment about the weather offered me the brief distraction I needed to break from his intense eye contact.
I place his coffee on the counter between us and quickly withdraw my hand before our fingers can brush accidentally.
“How are you today?” he asks when I don’t look at him again.
“I’m doing well, thanks.” It’s a rote, cheery response.
I glance up out of reflexive politeness, but I stop myself before I make the mistake of meeting his entrancing eyes again. Instead, my gaze fixes on the book he’s holding casually at his side. His fingers conceal most of the title, but I’m familiar enough with the shape and shade of the font that I recognize it instantly.
The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue.
I’ve read it at least half a dozen times, and the worn copy on my nightstand is a testament to my love for the dark, fantastical story.
“I love that book,” I exclaim before I can think better of it. “What part are you on?”
His low chuckle rumbles toward me, low as the thunder outside. “No spoilers, Abigail,” he admonishes. “I just bought it this morning.”
“You’ll have to tell me what you think when you finish.” I’m gushing, and I can’t help it. “It’s so good .”
I linger over the final words, and Dane’s eyes flash with something like predatory, carnal awareness. As though I’ve just expressed orgasmic joy in the middle of the café.
My cheeks flush, but I can’t suppress my genuine smile. “I hope you like it.”
“I want to know what you like about it. Maybe you could tell me when you finish your shift.”
As seems to be his habit, it’s not really a question. But it’s still more of a request than a demand.
“Why?” I ask before I can think better of it.
Our date didn’t end well, so I don’t understand why he wants to spend more time with me now.
He sighs and speaks slowly, as though explaining something very obvious. The twinkle in his eyes softens any condescension that I might read in his tone. “Is it so hard to believe that I’m interested in getting to know you?”
My mouth opens and then closes. I take a moment to consider my response before acting on the instinct to give him a polite refusal.
He’s reading my favorite book. Maybe I was hasty to judge him for his career. I recall our commonalities—he also chose to defy his family and forge his own path.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
My knee-jerk reaction to finding out that he’s a plastic surgeon was to feel self-conscious my own imperfections. That insecurity had been a catalyst that unraveled our date.
It was my perverted reaction to his kiss—the flashback to being attacked and violated—that made me run away entirely.
I still don’t think I’m worthy of this man, but I’m curious enough to know what he thinks of Addie LaRue to consider spending a little more time with him.
I don’t currently have any friends who are avid readers of my preferred genre. Franklin and I have bonded over our love of art and cheesy musicals, and when I go out with my girlfriends from work, we spend most of our time dancing or singing karaoke.
I haven’t indulged in a book club since I dropped out of college and left my old social circle behind.
And I’m burning with curiosity to know why a man like Dane would choose to pick up my favorite book. The fact that he’s reading fiction rather than an autobiography or something similarly pragmatic is intriguing enough to tempt me.
“All right,” I say after a long moment of consideration. “I finish work at five.”
His grin hits me like a beam of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “Excellent. There’s a dessert bar on Broad Street. We can indulge in something sweet and talk about the book.”
I summon up a practiced, cheery smile, reminding myself of the simple but happy life I’ve built for myself over the last two years. I can do this. I can deny my darkest impulses and go on another date with Dane.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
“Abby, we’re getting a line.” Stacy laughs in outwardly friendly admonishment, but it’s a touch too sharp to be casual.
I’m being an annoying colleague. The drink orders have piled up during my short conversation with Dane.
“I’ll see you at the end of your shift,” he says, then strolls away with his Americano and book in hand.
He settles into a leather armchair and reads for hours. I struggle to focus on my job when he’s flipping the pages with those deft fingers. A few times, my mind wanders to what that careful, almost reverent touch would feel like on my own spine rather than the hardcover. I think I might be a little jealous of a book, and that’s mildly ridiculous.