The Fantasy
Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living.
-Dr. Seuss
A nother Saturday morning, another London Fog, another day to sit at Bocca Felice and write. The table I always sit at near the back is free, so I snag the wicker chair and make myself comfortable. Taking the laptop and notes from my bag, I arrange my set-up just so on the oak surface. My computer in the middle, notes to the left, a space for my scone and tea to the right.
I don’t always write in public. In fact, I like to write in the privacy of my apartment. When the Italian café opened four months ago, however, it became my regular weekend writing spot. Not because the drinks were amazing, and not because the scones were to die for, and not even because the waitstaff were kind and attentive. No. It was because of Marco.
Wonderful, handsome Marco.
My dream man come true. It took me a full five minutes to pick my jaw up off the floor when I first saw him helping his mother wait tables. Okay, maybe not that long, but I’m pretty sure everyone assumed I was having some kind of episode. My brain short-circuited the instant I laid eyes on him.
Tall, dark, handsome. Yes, the cliché is not lost on me, but it fits him to a T. He’s a six-foot-tall curly-haired Italian stallion, and I want to ride him. He would never know that’s what I want to do. Goodness me, no. My dirty thoughts are reserved for my mind and my writing. To everyone else, I’m just the shy, mousy brunette who keeps to herself. If they got a glimpse of what went on in my head?—
“Georgia!”
Abby calls my name and snaps me out of my reverie. I grab my usual order off the butcher block countertop, thank her, and head back to my corner table. Most staff know me by name, and I know them. I've been coming every Saturday morning since the family-run café opened. Same time, same order.
It’s nice to be recognized as a regular at a local hot spot—to be noticed. Something I don’t normally feel in my everyday life. How sad is that? I want to know if Marco notices me the same way I notice him. In fact, I’m dying to know, but can’t work up the courage to talk to him about anything other than coffee. Or scones. Stupid, delicious scones.
But really, how could he not realize?
He works Saturdays, so that’s when I’m here. I mean, he works other days of the week too, but I have a day job to worry about, so I can’t spend hours sitting here during the work week like I can on the weekend. Still, I’m here every Saturday. I may as well have a giant neon sign strapped above my head that reads: I WANT YOUR DICK!
Too dramatic?
Yeah. Too dramatic.
We’ve only chatted about inconsequential café-related topics. I’d like to believe that my quiet presence reads mysterious instead of weirdo , like it probably does. But Marco always makes time to at least say hello or grab me another drink if necessary. Spoiler: it’s always necessary.
Goodness, I love seeing his large hand wrapped around the yellow ceramic mug whenever he drops it off at my table. But I’d love it even more wrapped around my throat.
I take a bite of my Saskatoon berry white chocolate scone—an audible moan may or may not escape my mouth—and resolve to get to work instead of fantasizing about Marco any longer. Or, at least, putting my fantasies do wn on paper where they can actually be productive.
“I Only Have Pies for You” did well enough last year, but releasing a sequel would be another step toward quitting the day job and becoming a full-time writer. Titles are the best part. And though my mind is struggling to focus on anything other than Marco’s full bottom lip, I force myself to create food puns. Cute food puns.
Pudding Up with You.
Muffin Compares to You.
S’more Love.
All decent options, but not quite hitting what I want. I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, banishing Marco from my brain while I brainstorm. Some authors like to do the title last, or it magically comes to them while somewhere in the middle. Others have inspiration hit before the story even forms. I always have to consider mine throughout the entire process. Craft a few, see which one sticks in my brain and makes me giddy with delight.
This story was going to begin where “I Only Have Pies for You” ended. My timid female main character owned her own bakery—because what else would a female do in a romance novel? Kidding, kidding—and catered a big event for a prestigious tech firm in the city. There, she met the billionaire male main character wh o owned the company, of course, and romantic hijinks ensued. Enter Book Two.
So, a punchy, baked goods-related title is essential.
The aroma of baked bread fills the room, and I peek out the corner of one eye to see Marco coming from the kitchen with four fresh loaves of sourdough. God, could he be more appealing? Is there anything hotter than a man with fresh baking? The answer is no, by the way.
Usually, it’s Maria, Marco’s mom, who bakes bread on Saturday mornings. She must be out today. Can Marco bake? Because that would add a new level to the attraction scale. I can’t help but picture it. Marco in the kitchen, alone. His capable hands throw the dough against the counter, rolling it, working it. The veins on his arms are visible because of the pressure he puts on the dough while he kneads it over and over?—
That’s it!
All You Knead is Love.
Lost in my excitement, I let a little whoop! escape. Slapping one hand over my mouth, I turn to see Marco giving me a look. One eyebrow is raised, as if to ask you okay over there? and a hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. I give him a smile back and wave to show I’m alright.
My cheeks are burning. They must be a wild shade of pink. I shake my head at myself, but I am thrilled with the title I’ve nailed down for this sequel .
Now, all I kneaded was to get some love myself. Like that was ever going to happen. One glance from Marco and I turn into an awkward, flushed mess. It’s not like I didn’t have experience. I’ve dated my share of guys and explored enough kinks and fantasies through my writing, but I’ve never been so attracted to someone who was such a…a man. He makes the other guys I’ve dated seem like mere boys. That he co-owns and helps run a family business doesn’t hurt either. It shows he’s responsible and loves his family. And now I’m aware he also bakes. I stifle a groan. Could he be more perfect?
Frustrated with my inability to approach him for anything other than tea and baked goods, and frustrated in a completely different way, I try to do what I always do when I get like this. Close my eyes and picture him with a hideous, inexplicable mutation. Like scales all over his back, or eight extra toes on the back of each heel, or a secret twin living inside him à la Jekyll and Hyde. That seems to help a bit. I chuckle at the idea of an evil villain lurking inside of Marco’s body, forcing him to bake a loaf of sourdough topped with an elusive rare salt every night that will keep the monster at bay.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Marco’s smooth voice and subtle accent rolls over me and plunges me back into sexual frustration. My eyes shoot open in response, and I find him standing at my table in the corner, looking down at my empty mug, then back to me. I gather myself so I can reply as coherently as possible.
“Yeah, actually. A chai latte would be great.”
“Sure you don’t want another London Fog?” he inquires.
He remembers my order. It’s ridiculous, but him remembering what I like to drink causes butterflies to dance in my stomach.
“I thought one was enough for today. Figured I’d try something new.” I shrug, doing my best to seem nonchalant.
He takes the chair opposite me and sits down. It’s all I can do to keep the deer-in-headlights expression off my face. Stay calm. Don’t be a weirdo.
“You are the most consistent customer I’ve ever seen. You sit at the same table every Saturday and order the same thing: a London Fog and a white chocolate scone. When I ask if you want anything else, you always get another London Fog. What’s different about today?” His eyes lock with mine, imploring, searching for an answer.
He’s so sure of himself, I take a second to recover. He knows my routine. Which means he’s paying attention to me. And now…is he asking me something personal? I try not to light up with obvious glee that—at some point—I’ve been on his mind .
“I-I’m not sure, really,” I stammer. “I’d like to try something different, something new.”
Marco’s eyes sparkle at my answer and he leans in, resting his toned forearms on the table. They can't be that muscular just from kneading bread. Right?
“So you’re in an adventurous mood today?” A suggestive flicker lights up his eyes.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s flirting with me. Maybe he is. Why shouldn’t he? I’m cute, I’m consistent , and he obviously thinks about me at least a little. Perhaps this is my shot to get what I’ve been daydreaming about for the past four months.
“As a matter of fact, I am. My life could use a little adventure.” I dare myself to match his gaze and not break away.
“What kind of adventure did you have in mind?”
“What can you offer?” OH MY LORD. Did that just come out of my mouth? Subtle as a freight train. Speaking like a character in one of my romcoms was not the way to go about things in a real-life situation. Still, I refuse to look away.
A deep chuckle leaves his body, washing over me, and a frisson climbs my spine. “I could offer you a lot, stellina .” One hand slides over mine, and he rubs his thumb in slow circles on my skin. Slow, sensual circles. The heat of his touch almost makes me forget to make a mental note to research what stellina means when I get home .
“Can I give you my number?” I clench my jaw and hope to God he’ll show me exactly what he has to offer when he gets off work.
He arches an eyebrow, and that pretty smirk reappears. “Why wait?”
Marco’s fingers slide around my hand, gripping tight. My breath catches in my throat at his firm touch. I can tell he’s waiting for some sort of confirmation that I’m up for this before making his next move. I nod, only just, but it’s enough for him.
Keeping my hand in his, he stands and pulls me alongside him. We walk toward the hallway at the back of the café. I survey the area to see if anyone is looking at us. All the patrons are doing their own thing, and Abby must be in the kitchen because I can’t see her at the counter.
My heart is pounding, and I swear Marco can hear it. I try to take a deep, calming breath on the sly as he tugs me toward the door at the end of the back hallway. This is what I want. Have wanted for months. I can’t decide whether I want to scream, squeal, or throw up in anticipation. Well, not that last one. That wouldn’t bode well for anyone in this situation.
He pushes open the door and pulls me inside, slamming it shut behind him and flipping the lock on the door with an audible click. The lights are still off, and I’m not sure what room we’re in. I open my mouth to ask when his presence surrounds me. My throat clams up, an d I find it tough to form a coherent thought in my very aroused brain.
Marco’s not touching me, but I can sense his body hovering in front of mine. The sliver of light shining under the bottom of the door shows how close he is. His warm breath tickles the side of my face. If I were to arch my body even a fraction, it would connect with his. And as desperately as I want to do that, Marco is in control of this situation, not me.
“Is this what you want, Georgia?” His lips trail over my jawbone, not quite touching.
I nod my head like an idiot before realizing the room is almost pitch black, and he can’t see me. “Yes,” I squeak out.
“You’re here every week. Every Saturday, always when I’m working,” he whispers in my ear. “Is that because you wanted me to notice you?”
The way he says it isn’t demeaning. It doesn’t make me feel desperate or ridiculous. In fact, I feel seen. It means he’s noticed me, too, more than I realized he had.
He’s still not touching me, and it’s driving me crazy.
“Yes. I wanted you to notice me,” I admit, my cheeks ablaze. Thank goodness for the dark.
“It worked.”
My breath catches in my throat for the hundredth time since he started speaking to me. I didn’t expect him to be so brazen, so straight-forward. I figured there might be a l ittle flirting, maybe a suggestive hand graze here and there when grabbing my drink, working up to a conversation…
But no. Marco comes right out and says what he’s thinking.
He smells like freshly baked bread and, well...how would I describe it? If I were writing, I would describe it as “man” or “musk” or a “heady cologne,” but that isn’t quite right for him. His scent was something else entirely.
“I noticed. I noticed the way you always blow on your tea before taking a sip, even after it's cooled off. I noticed that you always get one refill, no matter what. I noticed that you’re here first thing in the morning, and you don’t leave until the afternoon.”
I reach out and find his chest. My palms run over his shirt, and I’m rewarded with a throaty growl. I can’t help it. My hands have a mind of their own, and with all the wonderful things he’s saying, my body craves him like nothing else.
“What else?” I hoped I wasn’t pushing it.
He rests his forehead against my own. If the lights were on, I would be looking straight into his golden-brown eyes. Again, I’m thankful for the lack of light. I couldn’t handle the intensity of this moment without the comfort of the surrounding darkness.
“Your wavy hair. Your full lips. Your gorgeous body. God, stellina . I noticed your perfect little tits. All I dream about is what a pretty pussy you must have.” A deep groan left his mouth. “I can’t even begin to tell you what I want to do to you.”
The words coming out of his mouth have me in a stupor. My breath is coming quick and shallow. The wetness pooling between my legs is uncomfortable. At this rate, I’m going to soak through my pants, not just my panties.
Marco thinks about me like I think about him. He wants me like I want him.
“Let me show you, stellina .” Marco’s voice is rough and pleading like he can’t contain himself for much longer. I need to ease his strain.
“Show m?—”
Before the last of those two simple words are past my lips, his mouth is on mine, swallowing them up. His tongue pushes past my lips, and I let him in. His tongue tangles with mine as he pulls me deeper.
His arms move from the door to my body, tracing over my hips and finding the hem of my shirt. He breaks away from our kiss to pull it off me in one smooth motion. As soon as it’s off, he’s back on me, pressing me against the door. The pressure of his body is heady, and my hands explore the taut muscle underneath his shirt. His skin is still warmed from the ovens, and I want to touch all of it.
Marco’s tongue traces a path down my neck, over my collarbone, and stops at my breast. I let out a whimper of p rotest, hating that he’s stopped. No sooner than I begin to lament the loss of his tongue does he wrench my bra down, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the room. His tongue flicks over one, then the other, as his palms grab me. He massages roughly while sucking on my nipple, grazing it with his teeth, teasing me. I’ve never had spectacularly sensitive nipples, but this ? This is heavenly.
My hands are in his hair as he feeds on my body. I can’t help the rocking of my hips against him. I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so turned on. It doesn’t matter. He can do whatever he wants with me, and I’ll comply.
“Tell me what you want,” he commands, grabbing my hips and jerking me flush against his front. “Use your words, little star. How else am I supposed to know exactly what you want?”
God, I love the way he takes control. Grabbing and wrenching and pulling at me. That’s what I want. More of that. More of everything. How much is he comfortable with, though?
Only one way to find out.
“I…” I swallow and take a breath while he palms my ass in his hand, grinding into me. “I want you to be rough with me. I want you to take what you want.”
The sound that comes from him is not human. It starts in his chest and builds through his throat, erupting in a gravelly moan that makes my knees weak. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard .
Marco spins me around and shoves me against the door. His body is against mine, holding me in place, and I can make out how erect he is. Having his arousal pressed against my ass has me moaning into the cool metal of the door.
One hand snakes up my neck and forces my head back. He angles my mouth to meet his and devours me. His other hand tugs off my pants and finds the front of my panties, shoving them down as far as they will go. His entire palm slides down my front and cups my pussy.
“So wet for me,” he breathes into my mouth, kissing me between words. “So. Damn. Wet.”
His fingers find my slit and slip between my folds. My knees buckle at the first brush of my clit. I can tell he’s smiling against my lips. He does it again. Over and over. I want to writhe at the pleasure building inside me, but Marco still has me pinned against the door, his hand still on the front of my neck, controlling my body.
All I can do is take it.
As the familiar tug of pleasure builds in my pussy, Marco takes his fingers away and slides them further down. They play at my entrance, teasing me before dipping in and retreating out to start over.
“Marco, please,” I beg.
“Use your words, Georgia.”
“Please touch me, please . ”
A husky chuckle fills my ear. “Not good enough, stellina . Tell me what you want.”
“I want your fingers inside me, Marco. Please.”
“One more time,” he demands.
“Please, I need you inside me.”
I don’t have to ask again. Two thick fingers plunge into me, filling the ache between my thighs. He moves in a steady rhythm, finding the spot that I need him to touch so desperately.
The moans coming from me are quiet at first, but with each thrust, it becomes more strenuous to contain my pleasure. The entire situation has me weak and crying out. His body on mine, his cock pressed to my ass, his hand on my throat, his fingers inside me. I need to keep it down, or the whole café will know what we’re doing. I hear a gentle shhh in my ear and know Marco must be thinking the same thing.
My hand weaves up his arm. I take my fingers and wrap them around his, increasing pressure to the sides of my neck slowly. He tenses up and stops his movements for a moment before continuing to invade me with his fingers, drawing the pleasure out of my body.
“You like to be choked?” Amusement colours his voice.
I nod my head, knowing he can feel the motion of it against him. His grip tightens until my breath is coming in ragged bursts, and my moans are lost in my throat, unable to escape .
“Perfect,” he mumbles into my hair. “Absolutely perfect.”
His fingers slide out of me and find their way back to my clit. Rubbing back and forth with increasing speed, my body tenses up under the work of his hands. My breath is still ragged, and he tightens his grip around my neck just enough for me to see stars as I begin to come apart. My entire body tenses in his grip as a flood of warmth bursts out through my core and weaves its way down my limbs.
Marco releases his firm hold on my neck, and I take hurried gulps. My legs are shaking, and I’m sure if he wasn’t pressing me up against the door with the weight of his body, I would collapse on the floor. He pulls my panties back up my thighs and settles them in place.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “Because as much as I love touching you in the dark, I want to see your beautiful face when I shove my dick in you.”
A tingling sensation moves across my body. I do as I’m told. He flicks a light switch somewhere next to the door. The brightness hits my eyelids and I squeeze them shut, not ready to come back to reality yet, but definitely ready to come again if that option is on the table.
“Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them. Understand?”
“Yes.” A gratifying sigh leaves my lips. I’m ready for more of whatever he wants to do to me .
He takes a step away from my body, and I miss his warmth against me. His hands grab the back of my bra, and he undoes it in a fluid motion, sliding it off gently. I say a silent thank you to the universe that I wore a lacy matching underwear set today.
The idea of him seeing me in nothing but my black lingerie is doing all kinds of things to me. I want to turn around and open my eyes, see his reaction to me, but I don’t. His games are more important than seeing the satisfaction on his face.
He turns me around, helping me step out of the pants pooled at my feet, and traces his hands down the front of my body. He palms my breasts and pinches my nipples. I can’t see him, but his breathing deepens, and it turns me on.
I jolt when his lips press against my stomach. A dark chuckle leaves his throat, and I smile. He must be on his knees in front of me. The notion makes my legs even weaker. His hands reach up and grab my backside, kneading the flesh there, pulling my body closer to his. His lips work their way down my stomach until they’re on top of my panties. Desperately, I wish for him to slip the fabric to the side, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he nips and licks at me through the lace. His hands trace their way back and forth in the waistband, toying with me, working me up. Not being able to see him but having him see all of me has me dripping. I’m sure he can taste me through my underwear. Only a scant piece of fabric stops his mouth from being where I need it most.
I let out the whimper that I’ve been holding back. It’s all Marco needs. His thick hands tear down my underwear, and his mouth is on me. I steady myself on the door behind me as he spreads my legs apart, throwing one of them over his shoulder. His tongue dives into my needy cunt. It’s weeping for him, his tongue, his touch. I never understood the term eating out until now. Marco is devouring me like he can’t get enough.
He runs his tongue up to my clit and sucks in a frenzy. My hands tangle in his hair as I buck against his face, craving the friction. My eyes flutter open—I can’t help it—and meet his gaze. He’s staring up at me with a wicked glint in his eye.
“I told you not to open your eyes,” he says, biting at me between words.
“I…I couldn’t help it.”
He points behind him. “On the counter, now.”
The authority in his voice does nothing to help the situation between my thighs. It makes it worse. I can feel myself throbbing.
We’re in some sort of storage room. There are boxes stacked on the shelves covering most walls and a narrow stainless-steel counter and sink on the left. I lift myself onto it and make a slight hiss when my ass hits the cold steel. The entire time, he’s watching me .
His hands move to his shirt, undoing the buttons at a painstaking rate. Next is his belt. It falls to the floor with a rattle. My eyes are glued to him. It’s the first time I've got to see him since we entered the back room (how long have we been in here?) and he’s punishing me. I watch as he pulls his shirt off and steps out of his jeans. The only thing left on his body is his underwear, and it can’t hide what’s going on underneath.
His cock. Is. Straining.
The fabric is barely holding him back.
My mouth waters at the idea of him taking off that last piece of clothing. He’s even more breathtaking than I considered possible. The light on his olive skin highlights the muscled contours of his body, his curly black hair is mussed from where my hands tangled in it moments ago.
Marco palms his erection, rubbing it through the silky fabric of his boxer briefs. Up and down. Up and down. It’s almost hypnotic. I watch, enraptured, until his voice breaks the spell.
“Spread your legs for me, Georgia. I’m done waiting.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. I’m done waiting, too. There is nothing I want more than his dick inside me right now. I swear my arousal is pooling on the counter under me—and I love it. He yanks off his underwear, and his shaft springs free. It’s the type of dick I write about: long, thick, and more than enough to fill me.
He’s on me in seconds, crashing against my body, pulling me closer to him. He pulls me to the edge of the counter and thrusts into me without warning. My yelp is swallowed by his mouth on mine. His tongue pushes its way into my mouth, searching, exploring every inch. Strong hands grip my ass and hold me in place so he can fuck me with force. The grip on my skin is punishing, and I’m sure I’ll be bruised tomorrow, but I love it. The pain and the pleasure.
I hold on to him, pulling him closer, meeting his thrusts. My fingernails dig into his back, spurring him on. I let out a breathy moan, unable to contain myself. So unbelievably good. Marco’s officially ruined sex for me because nothing will ever feel this fantastic again. His broad dick driving into me, his merciless touch, his cruel pace.
“You’re dripping. All for me.” He pulls himself out of me and dips his head to my pussy, taking long, fevered licks of my arousal. “You taste so good.”
Well. Fuck, if that’s not the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
He stands up and takes my lips with his. His chin and mouth are wet from eating my pussy, but I don’t care. He pushes me onto my back, grabs my thighs, and pulls me half off the counter, supporting me with his grip aro und my legs. His cock is at my entrance, and he slowly, so slowly, slides back in.
“Fuck, stellina . Why did we wait so long to do this?” His words come out between ragged breaths as he finds his rhythm again, pumping into me over and over.
One arm wraps around both of my bent legs and pins them to his chest as he fucks me hard against the counter. He dips a finger from the other hand in his mouth, coating it in saliva. I don’t register what’s happening until his finger is on my tight ring of muscle, rubbing circles around it.
“Marco!” I gasp, loving having him so close back there. It seems forbidden—wrong, even—and I want nothing more than to do every dirty thing with him.
He slows his pace and asks, “Do you want this?”
I nod, craving what he’s offering me. I want him everywhere in my body.
“Use your words, Georgia.”
“Yes—I want it. Please, do it.”
His finger pushes inside me while he’s still fucking my cunt, and the sensation is exactly what I need. My pussy flutters around his dick, and when he lets out a moan, it’s too much to handle. Picking up his pace, he moves his body and hand in time together, filling both my holes like no partner has done before.
“Come for me one more time. Come before I do,” he grunts out, low and throaty .
My hand snakes down to find my clit, and it only takes a few strokes before I’m biting back a scream underneath him, my body thrusting against his in ecstasy.
Marco pushes my legs back against my body, pulls out of me, and comes all over my asshole with a deep groan that sounds so satisfied it makes my pussy throb. He rubs his cock against my hole, teasing me as he comes down from his orgasm.
I’m still trying to catch my breath when he leans over my body, pressing against me, and takes my lips with his. Not rough this time, but tender. His fingers replace his cock, and he spreads his cum all over my back entrance before pressing a finger inside again. I shudder at the intrusion, groaning into his mouth. His finger moves inside me at a steady pace, in and out, pushing his cum into my body.
“Next time, I’m taking you here,” he whispers.
His tongue trails down my neck, electrifying my skin.
“I’ll take my time.” His tongue works its way back up to my pulse. “I’ll start slow like I’m doing now.” He bites down, and I stifle a cry of pleasure. “But I’ll stretch you out, little by little.”
A second finger joins the first, slipping through his cum and into me with only a bit of resistance. This time, I can’t hold back, and the sound that comes out of me isn’t one I’ve ever made before.
“And then you’ll take all of me.”
His fingers drive deeper into me, and I buck my hips in his grasp. That wicked smile is back on his face, only an inch from mine, and damn if I don’t love it.
“Tell me you want that, little star.”
“I want that.” No hesitation because one hundred percent I want that. I want him everywhere, all the time.
“That’s what I thought.” He kisses me one last time and pulls his fingers from me. Losing his touch is immediate, and I ache to be full again, even though we were together moments ago. I close my eyes to gather myself, breathing through the last fleeting feelings of his touch.
“Georgia?”
I hear my name, but I’m lost in the thought of him.
“Georgia?”
Again, I hear him call my name, and it pulls me back to the present. My eyes shoot open in response and I find him standing by my table in the corner, looking down at my empty cup, then back to me.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Marco’s smooth voice rolls over me, and my cheeks flush with heat. Shaking myself out of my incredibly detailed reverie, I gather my wits so I can reply as coherently as possible.
“Yeah, actually. A chai latte would be great. ”
“Sure you don’t want another London Fog?” he inquires, smirking at me.
He remembers my order. I know it’s ridiculous, but the fact that he thinks of me enough to remember what I like to drink has butterflies dancing in my stomach.
“I thought one was enough for today. Figured I’d try something new,” I shrug, doing my best to seem nonchalant. I’m pretty sure I’m failing horribly, though, because my face is burning thanks to my little daydream, and I’m squirming under Marco’s gaze, sure he can see how turned on I am. I need to get out of here.
“Actually, can I get it to go?” I add, before Marco turns to go ready my order.
“Not staying till lunch today?”
I shake my head. “I’m going to take off.”
“Okay,” he nods, heading toward the counter. “I’ll be right back with it.”
While Marco makes my drink, I grab my notes and computer and shove them into my bag. This would be a great time for an enormous glass of ice water to help cool me down from the inside out. Why did I order another hot drink? Why did I order another drink at all?
Gosh, I rarely let myself run away with my fantasies like that. At least not in public. At home is another story .
I head to the counter so I don’t have to stay here any longer than necessary. My face is still hot, and I’m sweating behind my knees. With no chance of Marco taking me into the backroom, my battery-operated boyfriend will have to do.
Marco heads to the register, and I pull out my credit card, eager to pay, get out of here, and take care of myself. He gestures at me, shaking his head at the card.
“It’s on the house.” He says, handing me my to-go cup. I swear he winks at me, but it’s so quick, I can’t be sure.
My fantasy has me too riled up to think straight. I thank him and head toward the door, eager to get some distance from his freakishly good-looking face.
“See you soon!” he calls out right before the door closes behind me. I manage a wave through the front window in his direction.
I sip at the latte, speed-walking toward my car. Something strange is on the side of the cup. It doesn’t look right. I pause at my car door and read the writing.
Call me. Let’s get together before next Saturday. 458-9837.
The cup slips from my hands and crashes to the street, spilling everywhere. I grapple with it and get it picked up, shaking off the drips of liquid on the outside. Shit. Did anyone see that ridiculous fumble? Thank God I’m out of view of the café .
Staring at the cup, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Marco’s number. His phone number. MARCO’S FREAKIN’ PHONE NUMBER.
Too dramatic?
No. Not too dramatic.
Marco wants to meet up with me! I squeal, hug the cup to my chest, and do a little dance outside the driver-side door of my hatchback. An elderly man across the street shoots me a strange expression before continuing on his way. I should really get in my vehicle and leave now.
I shut the door behind me and settle in my seat, still staring at the message on the cup. Who knew that ten words and seven digits could bring a girl so much joy?
The storage room fantasy doesn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.
Okay, yes, it does.
It’s still unlikely, and it would be foolish to believe that Marco the Man would act like Marco the Fantasy. But what I have is better. An actual chance to go on an actual date with the actual Marco.
Who kneads a fantasy when I’ve got a shot at the real thing?
See what I did there?