Chapter One #3
Drea looked down at her notepad. The neatly tabulated columns with ideas and a to-do list helped focus her mind.
When she’d asked her best friend if she could organize their party for them, Harper had immediately said yes.
The happiness she’d felt had lasted all of an hour when it became apparent Cujo had asked Trent the same question.
Now the two of them were stuck trying to find common ground.
“I think I know my best friend better than you. She’s a city slicker through and through. Who loves high-heeled shoes and cute dresses.”
“Let’s not get into a pissing contest on how well we know our BFFs,” Cujo mocked. “We met the first day of kindergarten, so I got you beat by a couple of decades on that score, Half Pint.”
“Cut the height references, you ass. We need to agree on something quickly.” Drea looked down at her watch.
Goddamnit. How could it be nearly nine already?
She couldn’t be late, not with José heading to the dentist and Harper still out on vacation.
Not that she was complaining. The extra money earned covering Harper’s shifts had been really helpful.
Cujo stood, and Drea tried not to stare as he smoothed his faded jeans.
She itched to run her fingers down the denim to see if it felt as soft as it looked.
Placing his coffee cup on the table, he grabbed her hand.
The tingle she felt shoot up her arm made her heart race.
Their feet impossibly close together, Drea stood, her body millimeters away from his, acutely aware of the proximity of his pecs to her lips.
Her skin prickled as his body, so very warm and solid, pressed against hers.
Cujo flattened his hand on the top of her head then pulled it against his chest before stepping away.
“See?” he said gruffly, his gaze shifted from her cleavage to her face. “Shortcake.”
Drea wrenched out of his arms.
He winked at her. “Nice view.”
* * *
“Creep,” she said, pushing him away.
She’d felt so soft, her breasts pressed up against him. The way those clear hazel eyes of hers flared turned him on. Which really illustrated how men’s brains and cocks worked totally independent of each other, because she was driving him crazy.
The reason for their discussion had momentarily disappeared from his mind, replaced with images of all the things his cock wanted to do. Like raising the height of his tattooing chair, laying her down in it, pulling her to the edge, and …
Her nails clicked on the tabletop. Oh yeah. She wanted formal.
“It should be what they want, not what you want,” Cujo said, shaking the charged images from his mind. There was no way Trent would go for what she was proposing. He knew it. The guy’s idea of dressing up was wearing black denim.
“Harper loves the art deco architecture here. She’s told me a million times how she enjoys walking from the bus to work because it gives her time to create stories in her head about the buildings she passes. One of the smaller ones is available to rent for parties.”
Cujo leaned over her shoulder, the subtle strawberry smell of her hair a heady distraction. He wanted to hate it, to cool his engines, but somehow couldn’t. She was messing with his head. Both of them. He grabbed a marker from the container on the table and put a big red line through her idea.
Drea smacked his knuckles with her pen. Hard. He yanked his hand away.
“Motherfucker,” he hissed. “Christ, you’re like a smiling assassin with ninja pen skills.”
“Why did you X my list?”
“It needs to be fun, not stuffy, Shortcake.”
“Stop. Calling. Me. Shortcake. Formal doesn’t have to be stuffy.”
“Yes it does. Hang on, look.” Cujo leaned back, pretended to look something up on his phone. “There it is. Definition of formal. ‘Stuffy. Staid. Bore the crap out of you, pretentiousness.’”
Drea groaned, closed her eyes, and inhaled slowly. “Okay, smartass, what’s your plan?”
“Something silly. Fun. Like a luau. Or a Mexican fiesta. Think about it. Taco bar stations serving all that healthy shit Harper loves. Hell, we could even hire a mariachi band.”
“So basically something you could do any time of the year for any occasion? What makes it special?” Drea turned, his face so close to hers, he could feel her breath flutter across his lips.
“You.”
Cujo wished he could suck the word back in as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t mean it. Okay, maybe he did. In a silent movie kind of way. Like, if she didn’t talk at all, and just kept all that attitude tucked inside.
“What do you mean, you?” Drea studied him and blinked those sexy-as-hell long eyelashes.
“You. You’ll find a way to take something mundane and turn it into something special. You’ll Pinterest it to death or something, and stick it in that binder of yours.”
He took the folder off the table, grabbed a permanent marker from a tray, and started to draw on the plastic cover.
He looked up and found Drea subtly shifting in her seat in an attempt to see what he was doing.
He angled the binder away from her and laughed when she huffed.
“You’ll find all the touches to make it awesome.
You’ll make the night special.” He mentally applauded himself on the epically good save.
Drea raised an eyebrow. Okay, maybe the save wasn’t as great as he thought.
“Again, we come back to lazy. You throw out an idea and expect me to do all the work.”
“I’ll help for God’s sake! I can find the location and drinks.”
“I don’t know, Cujo. A luau, really?” Drea sighed. “It sounds more frat party than engagement celebration. And don’t forget their parents and family will be there, too. I think we need to—”
The door flew open. Pixie, the young studio manager, came bursting in, all purple hair swinging and, in unexpected contrast, singing a Broadway show tune. She stopped abruptly when she spotted them.
“Hey, guys, sorry. Didn’t realize you were here.” She cocked her head to the speakers. “No music playing.”
“Yeah, got a bit crazy this morning,” Cujo said with a devastating smile and draped his arm around Drea. “This wildcat has a thing for doing it on desks filled with paperwork.” Drea stiffened against him, but Pixie barked out a laugh.
“Is that why the desk is such a mess? I was going to yell at Lia for not closing everything down properly. Do I need to disinfect?”
“Long story,” Cujo said. “I’ll fill you in later.”
Pixie grabbed an envelope off the desk and left.
Drea stood, and his arm slid from her shoulders. “I need to go.” She dropped the pens into her purse and held out her hand for the binder. He passed it to her, hoping she’d like his artwork.
Her face was flushed, and it goddamn suited her. It softened her harsh attitude, made him wonder what she’d look like as she came apart in his arms. He banked the thought as he watched her leave the office, as there was nowhere that thought could lead other than trouble.
* * *
Twenty minutes from closing time and Drea was more than ready to leave.
José’s was empty because, well, there was no such thing as a Thursday night rush.
Drea started wiping down the tables, eager to get home.
Her mom hadn’t answered when Drea called during her break.
It was so unlike her, and crazy what-if scenarios bounced around inside Drea’s head.
Cujo was on her mind, too. It pained her to admit it, but now she’d had time to think about his party suggestions, he might be right.
Harper did like the art deco architecture of Miami, but that didn’t mean she’d want to sacrifice fun to have her party inside one of those buildings.
And she didn’t really know Trent all that well.
Maybe she should have been a bit more open to Cujo’s suggestions.
They’d want the perfect party, not the perfect venue.
She watched Marco struggle to pour sugar into a dispenser, holding back a laugh as it spewed over the side.
“I got this,” she said, taking the bag from him. “You go home, or better still, go out. At least one of us should have a life.”
“You sure? That would be awesome,” Marco said. “I’ll just get the mop set up for you.”
He disappeared into the back as a woman wearing jeans and a pink sweater came in through the front door. Around fifty, Drea guessed. Immaculate light makeup, white blonde hair pulled back into a professional-looking ponytail. A pair of small pearls graced her ears.
“Hey there. Are you still open or am I too late for a cup of coffee?” she asked cheerfully.
“Twenty minutes left,” Drea said with a smile. “What can I get you?”
“Oh, I’ll have a decaf latte to go, please. If I have caffeine at this time of night, I’ll never get to sleep.”
Marco placed the mop and bucket by an empty table, his uniform replaced with a pair of cargo shorts and black T-shirt, and shouted his good-byes.
“Have a good night, Marco,” she said over her shoulder.
Drea filled the portafilter with the Swiss decaf ground coffee and set the machine to prepare the espresso.
“So, what brings you out tonight?” Years of working in the café had made her the queen of useless small talk.
“Just the coffee,” the woman said with a laugh. “I was watching a documentary when I realized you’d be shutting soon, so I bit the bullet and hustled here.”
“You’ve got a tough accent to place,” Drea observed while she waited for the steam to heat the milk.
“I get that a lot. Travelled around the country for different reasons for close to twenty years.”
Drea placed the coffee on the counter. “I’d love to go to college or travel,” she said wistfully, but at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, that was looking unlikely.
Caring for her mom for all these years had quashed her plan.
At this rate, she’d have the same amount of debt as a college graduate, without any of the skills to get out of her dead-end job.
“Well,” said the woman, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “I encourage you to make that a reality. Please keep the change.”