Chapter 2 - Erin #2
Not just a little dot or splash; I’m positively covered.
There’s no way I can turn up to my lawyer’s office looking like this.
The mediation. Fifteen minutes. SHIT.
My patience finally snaps and all sense of decorum slips through my fingers.
Lifting my lashes, I glare at the person who just dumped half a bean machine on my chest.
“If I wanted a spray tan buddy, I’d have gone to a salon!” I shout. “What were you thinking? Don’t you look where you’re going?”
My vision is hazy with vitriol and it’s taking all my strength to not stamp my feet.
“Actually, um—”
Wait… he thinks he deserves to get a word in edgeways? After he’s just ruined my outfit? The only smart outfit I can actually afford?
My hands are shaking so much, I almost drop my compact.
“You have no idea what you’ve just done,” I continue, my voice climbing.
“I’m on my way to my lawyer’s office. I have no money—I spent my last check on this blouse.
I’m working in the gig economy for crying out loud, I’m living back home with my mother, trying to raise a daughter who hates me, and I can barely afford to divorce my husband, whom I’m supposed to be going through mediation with in TEN MINUTES.
I do NOT need a fucking coffee-drenched blouse right now. ”
I know I’m causing a scene but I can’t help it. The last strand of whatever was holding me together has snapped and I’m unraveling faster than a bargain-bin sweater.
“Look, I—”
“Save it!” I snap, bordering on hysterical. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it. You’ve ruined my entire day. Possibly my LIFE. You don’t get to say anything to me right now. Not even ‘sorry,’ you asshole.”
The coffee machine has ground to a halt and the only sound to be heard is that of me having a spectacular meltdown in a coffee shop on the corner of Shitsville and I Should Probably Stop.
But I don’t, because I’m overflowing with pent-up rage. My judgmental mother, my angry daughter, my manipulative husband, the job market… it’s all flying out of my mouth at an astonishing rate.
Most people avert their eyes, but his remain poised. Curious. Intrigued. And it’s only once I’ve spewed out every accusation and hardship, colored with every curse word on the planet—except the c-word. I can never use the c-word—that I realize the perpetrator is actually quite handsome.
Um, make that jaw-droppingly sexy.
…and half-naked.
I take a much-needed deep breath.
Wow.
I’ve read about marbled chests in my romance books, but I’ve never known what one really looks like. Always figured I’d know if I saw one, and I was right.
I count eight packs. Not six—eight. Smooth, gleaming softly beneath the fluorescents. The upper half warmed by salt and pepper hair that makes my fingers restless.
My gaze slides like melting ice cream to a naval that could have leapt straight off the pages of Men’s Health. A firm, flat slope caught in a delectable V shape disappearing below the buckle of his belt. A line of drool crests my bottom lip.
“Take this.”
His voice is deeper than before. Intimate, almost. Or maybe I only think it is because my pheromones have just woken up at the sight of the first hunk of male flesh I’ve seen since Gerard.
I swallow, my gaze caught on the crisp white shirt he’s holding out to me.
My lashes feel heavy when I lift them, setting eyes on his face.
Christ. Why does he have to be hot?
I school my features into something bland as I take him in.
Deep set, dark eyes and thick brows. Chiseled Roman nose. George Clooney stubble. Full lips with no hint of a smirk.
I put him at late forties or early fifties. Clearly looks after himself.
I swallow again and hope my voice still works. “You want me to have your shirt?”
“You said you need to be somewhere in a hurry,” he replies. “Take this for now.”
A stubborn, defiant part of me wants to throw the shirt back at him. It didn’t feel like an offer—it felt like a command, and I don’t like the way my knees have gone soft.
The coffee covering my blouse has cooled beneath the conditioned air, reminding me I can’t stand here for much longer before my nipples let the world know they’re chilly.
I hastily debate the merit in accepting his shirt. I don’t have the time nor money to buy a fresh one, and I can’t show up to a mediation either covered in coffee stains or half-naked. Accepting this stranger’s shirt would solve a problem quickly.
He jerks his head toward a restroom door and I scowl but take the shirt anyway.
The first thing I do when I’ve locked the door is stare at my reflection. The coffee covered me good and my entire 32DD bra is visible beneath the muddy polyester. Guess I just gave a coffee-shop-full of people an unexpected peep show.
I don’t bother undoing the buttons before I pull the soggy mess over my head. It was only ten bucks, but ten bucks means a lot to me these days. Still, not enough to justify a trip to the dry cleaner when there’s a million and one other things I have to do.
No. I’m not taking it to the dry cleaner. He is.
His shirt is slightly warm from where it had fit snugly around his upper body. My mind goes blank as I push my arms through the sleeves. It feels so expensive.
I pause and check the label. Dolce & Gabbana. Um, ‘kay.
And the scent. Holy nostrils. My senses swim in bergamot, burnished leather and honey. It’s maddeningly heady.
Carefully, I fasten the buttons, leaving the top few open.
When I glance up at my reflection, I groan. The shirt—as luxurious as it is—drowns me.
I tuck the length as best I can into my skirt and roll up the sleeves, tilting my head in approval.
The extra material certainly pads out my hips but I’m going to be on a screen for the mediation—no one will see below my waist. I take the opportunity to tidy up the mess I’d made with the makeup then unlock the door.
The man has fastened his jacket, concealing most of his bare chest, and I bite down on a pout, reminding myself I’m about to be late for my lawyer meeting and it’s All. His. Fault.
He’s standing with one hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other wrapped around a large coffee.
“I thought you could use this.” He pushes the take-out cup toward me and I narrow my eyes.
“French vanilla latte. Oat milk—just in case.”
I force annoyance back into my frown even though I’m quietly marveling at how thoughtful this is, and how incredibly marbled his still-visible pecs are.
I tentatively take the cup from him, trying to ignore the fact I apparently now have a thing for large hands, thick fingers, and heavily inked knuckles.
My phone buzzes again.
Five minutes.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“Anything else?” I snap.
“Don’t you want my address?” I swear there’s a tilt to his lips but with the rest of his expression cool and detached, I can’t accurately tell.
“That’s a little presumptuous.”
“For the dry cleaning check,” he says it like it’s a question, with an arched brow and sparkling eyes.
Embarrassment floods me and I shove my blouse into his stomach.
“I don’t have time to take it,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
Then, in a haze of humiliation, I tuck the coffee beneath one arm, yank a notepad and pen from my purse, scribble down my address, tear out the page and shove that at him too.
I straighten my spine, as if that’s going to help me glare levelly at him when he towers over me by about one foot five.
“Thanks for the shirt.”
Tens of pairs of eyes follow me as I walk to the door, then open it and leave.
The breeze bites at my heated cheeks but the latte warms my hand. For a moment I want to pause and digest what just happened, but I don’t have time.
I run three blocks in my secondhand heels, blisters forming before I reach the door. The receptionist waves me through with an anxious smile and I step into Mr. Daniels’ office, red, sweating and out of breath.
The screen is the first thing I see, and in it, leaning lazily back in his lawyer’s leather chair, his hand tapping the table impatiently, a dangerously smug expression on his face, my husband.