CHAPTER THREE
Hendrix
“Y ou’ll figure it out. I have faith that you will.” Paul’s voice is in my ear causing goosebumps—not the good kind—to chase over my skin. My hands fist on my design folder as I shift on my feet and look around the line ahead of me in the coffee shop.
“Easy for you to say. I’m not supposed to be figuring anything out. I’m supposed to be baking my ass off.”
“Then go do it. Why are you on the phone talking to me?”
Paul’s lucky he’s not standing in front of me or else it might be a tough task for anyone to remove my fingers from where they’d be wrapped around his throat.
“Because being an adult means you sometimes have to do things you don’t want to. For me? That’s talking to you and your—”
“The point of this call is... what? That you miss me? That you want to reconcile?” His chuckle is pure condescension. “I’m sorry, babe—”
“No. It’s that you drained the accounts. That you—”
“Guess you should be a little wiser with who you trust, huh? Your money issues aren’t my problem anymore, Hendrix. Really .”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so busy sticking your dick in your mistress and fucking me over, then I wouldn’t be having any problems now, would I?”
With my blood boiling, I end the call with fervor and look up. The man in front of me is coughing into his hand. The woman in front of him is peering back at me with huge eyes. And the man sitting a few tables over, a hoodie up and sunglasses on despite being inside, is grinning without shame.
Shit . I just said that out loud, didn’t I?
I put my head down and grimace, but then I figure I didn’t do shit wrong—have no shame other than telling the truth.
The line moves forward and as I do, I have the unmistakable feeling of someone staring at me. I glance up and meet the palest blue eyes. Hoodie guy took his sunglasses off and whoa , those eyes pack quite a punch. Not just the light color and how they’re framed with an abundance of dark lashes, but the curiosity with which they regard me.
I avert my eyes quickly, grateful when the line moves and I place my order. “Is Josie here?” I ask about the owner to the newly hired clerk behind the counter after I pay.
“Um, yeah. Somewhere.” She glances over her shoulder to the back, but I can tell by the shake of her hands and the darting of her eyes that she’s overwhelmed.
Or just had way too much coffee.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll chat with her later,” I say and wave a hand as I move for the next in line to order. Josie’s Java has been here for longer than I can remember. Whereas my bakery down the street is bright pastels and stripes, her aesthetic is more warm tones and dark browns to match the coffee beans that have been placed in various glass jars across the wall from me.
It’s busy today— when is it not —so I take the first available table I can find.
Of course, when I sit down and look up, those pale blue eyes are still studying me. He doesn’t avert his gaze, just holds mine long enough to make me uncomfortable. Then a group of girls at his back snicker and squeal as they stare at him.
He glances back at them and lifts his chin, clearly basking in their attention. I sigh and look away. It’s Los Angeles. Everyone here thinks they’re someone even when they aren’t. No doubt this guy’s the same. Or if he is someone—which I highly doubt—clearly, I don’t care.
And yet I look back and hold his eyes for a beat longer.
“Please tell me your day is better than mine,” Josie says as she steps into my field of vision and breaks off my staring contest. She sets my iced coffee in front of me and then wipes her hands on the dish towel that’s folded into the waistband of her apron. She’s about fifteen years older than me with cherubic curls and rosy-red cheeks. She peers at me from behind a pair of oversized, black-framed glasses and her trademark bushy eyebrows that she refuses to pluck. The woman is a legend in everyone’s mind but her own, and that’s why I’ve taken to her so fiercely.
I level her with a dubious glare for an answer that has her shaking her head.
“That bad?” she asks.
My smile is quick and sharp. “I haven’t found the right contract killer who’s willing to maim Paul’s nether regions.”
“Only his nether regions? Feeling kind today?”
“Cock. Dick. His tiny, little mushroom cap. Are those better?” I ask with a vindictiveness that’s not like me. She throws her head back and laughs. “I mean, I keep opening my fridge, hoping to find that whoever robbed that Bank of America down the street last week, stashed the sixty grand they stole there. No such luck. And then there’s the small matter of how I’m going to fulfill this gigantic order, so I’m trying to keep it all together without losing my shit.”
“So we’ve moved from the total shock to the anger portion of the getting fucked over by the boyfriend program, huh?” she deadpans.
I laugh. It’s the first time I actually have and meant it in the past few days. “Definitely wallowing in the anger portion. But thanks. I can always count on you to lighten my mood.”
Another group of girls push their way through the crowd and meet the giggling trio in the corner. I glance their way and then back to Josie. She lifts her eyebrows and shrugs. Business is business even if it is a giggling bunch of teenagers who might split one drink four ways because they’re broke.
“At least you have a thousand cookies to keep you busy. You can put on a true crime documentary and fantasize about it being Paul while you shape and mold and decorate them all.”
I hang my head and smile as I rock my head from side to side. “Nah. He’s not worth my time.” I look back up and meet the kindness in her eyes. “I think it’s being blindsided that hurts the most. Like here I was living in my own, completely perfect world—I had my bakery, my boyfriend, my future—all of it mapped out, and in one afternoon, one early arrival home, and poof , it’s all gone or in jeopardy of being gone.”
Josie reaches out and squeezes my shoulder. “It doesn’t help and won’t make you feel better, but maybe in time, you’ll see it was for the best.”
I smile but fight back the tears, the ones that feel like a constant ball in my throat that I refuse to let fall, and nod.
“And if not, then we just say what we’ve been saying.”
“Fuck you, Paul,” we say in unison followed by laughter.
“I have to get back to work, but I’m here, any time. You know that.”
“I do. Thanks, Josie.”
I watch her walk off and then allow myself to savor the first sip of my iced coffee. I’m tired and the kick of caffeine is welcome as I open my design folder. I shuffle through sketch after sketch of icing designs for the cookie tops. It sounds ridiculous to have a portfolio for my cookies, but then again, being original isn’t exactly the easiest in this town of dreamers and artists.
With a sigh, I turn the page on my sketches. Only in Hollywood does a famous couple hire you to design and provide one thousand cookies for their dog’s birthday party, but who am I to judge? A paycheck is a paycheck no matter how strange the work is.
A design idea strikes me and when I look down to my purse to grab my colored pencil kit, a voice nearby says, “Excuse me, miss?”
“Unless you have fifty, eighty—hell, why be stingy—one hundred grand to save my business and cheat-induced insanity, then I don’t want any,” I mutter as a pair of black combat boots arrives before me. I know who they belong to immediately.
Pretending he’s not standing there or that I said what I just said isn’t an option, so I take my time with a slow glance up his body to meet his eyes.
And Jesus .
The man is more than just pale blue eyes and a hoodie. He’s taller than I anticipated, ruggedly handsome with a sharp jaw and dimples in both cheeks that form as he greets me with a smile.
I seem to have lost my words for a moment as I stare at him with narrowed eyes and parted lips.
“Yes?” I croak.
The roguish smirk on his face says he most definitely heard me. “I think you dropped this.”
He holds my business card out to me, but I’m too busy focusing on his honey-coated gravel to respond. My glance down greets me with strong forearms where his sleeves are pushed up to display a sprinkling of intricate tattoos—including what looks like a large pink heart on his wrist.
“Um. Yes. Sure.” Snap out of it. I reach out and take my card from his hand. “Uh, thanks.”
“Cookie Cutter?”
That voice . It’s sex on silk sheets. Not that I’d know or anything but... never mind.
“Yeah.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder as if he knows where I’m motioning. “It’s my bakery. Down the street. I bake cookies.”
Way to sound intelligent, Hendrix.
“I’m Jase.” He holds his hand out and I look at it for a beat before I realize I’m supposed to shake it.
“Hi. Yes.” Our hands meet as I attempt to ignore the delicious scent of his cologne. It’s clean and reminds me of outdoors. “I’m Hendrix.”
“Hendrix?” He lifts his brows and fights a smile I don’t quite understand. “Interesting name.”
“Yeah, well, blame it on my dad.”
“No. I like it. It’s . . . fitting .”
“Okay.” Whatever that means . He studies me without shame. His gaze grazes over my features before meeting my eyes again. “Is there something else I can help you with?”
He huffs out a sound. But right before he speaks, an “Excuse me” is said to the right of us.
We both turn to find a tall brunette standing there with a wide smile and gorgeous eyes, which are clearly focused on the man before me. “Hi,” Jase says to her.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I wanted to... you know, give you this.” She hands something to Jase. It looks like a folded napkin and he takes it.
“Thanks.” He flashes a grin as he glances at whatever’s on the napkin, his grin growing even wider before he pockets the note. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She does some kind of move—a half curtsy with a dip of her knees while shrugging her shoulders at the same time—almost as if she’s hoping he’ll take her up right now on whatever it is that he’ll keep in mind.
And then she proceeds to stand there staring at him, more awkward than I was being—if that’s possible—while being incredibly forward.
“Look”—I interrupt her googly-eyed stare—“whoever you think he is, he’s not him. You’re just lonely, wishing he were, so I hate to burst your bubble and all, but have some dignity, huh?”
The woman’s cupid bow of a mouth shocks open while Jase’s dimples deepen. She sputters a response that never quite forms actual words before she huffs and stalks away.
The minute she does, I feel bad. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not her fault he’s standing there emitting I’m a celebrity vibe, while I sit here coping with a shitty day, feeling insecure next to her natural beauty.
“Shit,” I mutter and then abruptly stand.
“Where are you going?” Jase’s hand is on my arm and the second the two of us realize it, the second we jolt from the connection, he takes it back.
“To apologize to her. I was a bitch. It’s not her fault I’ve had a shit day. Week. Month.” I chuckle self-deprecatingly and wonder why this man hasn’t already bolted the other way since I’m showing my true— crazy —colors right now.
“No. It’s fine. Let her go.” There’s compassion and understanding in his voice that I don’t deserve. “I want no part of that.”
I stare at his narrowed brows, grateful for the understanding and grace this stranger just gave me but needing to find my footing again.
“No part of what?”
He shakes his head ever so slightly. “Never mind.”
“Yeah, well, you need to have a bit more dignity for yourself than letting women fawn all over you like you’re someone you’re not.”
“What does it hurt if it’s going to make them feel better or brighten their day?”
“Do you know who they think you are?”
“I have a clue. Yes.”
“That means this kind of thing happens all the time then.”
“It does.” He nods and I study him closer. The hint of dark brown hair that peeks out from beneath his hoodie. The gorgeous face. The body hidden by the generic-looking sweatshirt. He could be anybody.
And nobody.
“There are enough wannabes in this town,” I say. “Isn’t it better in the long run to just be you and not pretend?”
“Depends on your perspective.”
Apparently finding my footing means I’m a Grade A bitch.
Shit.
And why is he so damn attractive when he fights that little boy smile on his seriously sexy, grown-man body?
“Forget I said that.” I hold my hands up. “I apologize. You didn’t deserve that.”
He angles his head to the side and those ice-blue eyes hold mine. “You’re right. I didn’t. And it’s a little presumptive to think I’m here asking for your number.”
It’s my turn to stutter. “I’ve sworn off men so I assure you I didn’t say that. Or even think it.”
“Yes, you did. You wouldn’t have been so protective of us and our conversation if you hadn’t.”
“Protective of us?”
“You ran off my admirer.” His words are accusatory but his smile and expression are playful.
I don’t want them to be playful or him to be attractive or sexy. Charming. That’s what he is in the most lethal of ways. He’s not my type—so very far from it—and last I checked, I’ve sworn off men for the time being after Fuck You, Paul showed me his true colors.
But he is flirting with me, isn’t he?
Get a grip. Being nice is not the same thing as flirting. Clearly, I need an ego boost if I’m thinking some tattooed hottie in the coffee shop is flirting with me when all he did was bring me something I dropped and tell me my name is fitting.
“You’re overthinking,” he asserts.
“And you’re presumptive and—”
“Perhaps.” He shrugs. “But regardless of what you say, I know a woman who wants me when I see one.”
Jesus . Good thing I wasn’t taking a sip of my coffee or I’d have just spit it out. “Did you really just say that?”
His eyes light up. “I did.”
“Leave it to a man to think he’s the center of every woman’s world.” I shake my head and take a seat to facilitate this conversation being over. “I take back my apology. You do, in fact, need to find more dignity.”
He purses his lips and nods as if the hint to leave me alone has been heard but then taps his finger on the table beside my iced coffee. “For what it’s worth, Hendrix, he sounds like an asshole.”
“Who does?” My eyes meet his, yet my mind’s still repeating the way my name sounds rolling off his tongue.
“Whoever you were talking to on the phone. The man who made you swear off men, I presume.” He holds his hands up. “Unsolicited opinion and all.”
“You know what they say about opinions.” I lift my eyebrows as if they’re finishing the old adage for me.
“I do. Funny how willing you were to give yours though, so what does that say about you?”
“Touché. And warranted . Like I said, it’s been quite the... month . Thanks for giving me back the card I dropped. I appreciate it.”
“Are you blowing me off?”
“I am. Yes.” I smile. “Clearly, it’s something you’ve never had happen before, but unlike the rest of them, I have self-respect.”
“Glad we established that fact.” He gives a definitive nod but there’s something about him, that even when he’s getting a dig in, I still find myself wanting to like him.
“Me too,” I say and take a deliberately long sip on my straw to signal to him that once again, this conversation is over.
What I don’t expect is for him to lean down close to my ear and murmur, “For the record, all men aren’t cheating assholes.” Chills chase over my skin as he pauses. “Some, in fact, are good guys.”
“And are you one, Jase?” I ask without thinking.
He leans back so that our eyes meet. The warmth of his breath flutters over my cheek as my own stutters. There’s an intensity in his eyes that I didn’t expect and a weird want to understand it.
“Depends on the day.” As he takes a step back, that grin returns full force. It screams mischief and desire all in one tantalizing and confusing turn up of his lips. And then he walks away, throwing, “Later, Cookie Cutter,” over his shoulder as he goes.
I stare after him. I’d like to think it’s unknowingly but it’s not. I’m no better than the other women and girls in this place whose eyes are glued to him as he walks out the door and onto the street.
He looks both ways for a beat before heading to the left and out of sight.
But I keep staring at the glass storefront and the passersby.
And I keep wondering why my interaction with him feels like it’s been the best part of my day— no, week —when he’s just some random guy in Josie’s who’s pretending to be someone he isn’t.
He’s handsome. I’ll definitely give him that.
But he’s so not my type. Not the tattoos nor the combat boots. Not the cocky smirk nor the self-assurance. Not his effortless charm nor the way he finds it amusing that women think he’s someone different. Not anything and yet all of those things keep me looking after where he just was.
It’s Paul’s fault. Has to be.
He’s ruined the button-up dress shirt and Oxfords look for you. The clean-cut hair and the unmarked skin.
However, as I force myself to focus back on my design sketches, I catch myself glancing up now and again to check the doorway. Did that really just happen ?