Chapter 4
four
LYDIA
Iam mortified.
Not only did I just dump a whole cup of hot coffee all over an insanely good looking man, but now he’s also seen firsthand that Dylan wants to pull my hair while I suck his cock—and he’s staring at me with an expression I can’t quite read.
Make no mistake: It was his fault for standing too damn close to the counter. But holy shit, do I need to get out of here.
I snatch my second coffee from the barista. Twenty seconds ago, my gut reaction had been rage. First that stupid renovation, then Dad and his bullshit—and now this. But after that text, and the big, dark, wet stain on this guy’s t-shirt, I’m so embarrassed my knees are shaking.
Too late, I remember my manners and shoot the guy an apologetic grimace before turning away from the counter. “Sorry about your shirt.”
“No worries,” he says with a snort. And then, as though he just can’t help himself, this asshole goes, “Guess spilled coffee isn’t the only thing getting you hot and bothered today.”
And that does it. Halfway to the cream and sugar, I freeze.
Drawing myself up to full height, I take a deep breath and turn around. If my knees were shaking a minute ago, now they’re pulsing with adrenaline again. I don’t make a habit of glossing over misogynistic comments the way it is, but I’m sure as hell not in the mood for it this morning.
“Oh, yeah?” I hiss, stalking toward him. I stop in front of him, so close I can feel the heat from his chest. “Well, maybe you should read that text again and heed the advice—and suck a giant, fucking dick.”
I know as the words leave my mouth that I’m overreacting, but I also can’t help it. Too many things have gone wrong already this morning, and I don’t have the strength to play nice.
He towers above me, and I force myself to look up at him. I can feel the eyes on us, the soft, uncertain laughs, but I won’t back down. This guy picked the wrong person to mess with today.
“Jesus,” the guy whistles. He runs a hand through his tousled dirty blond hair. There’s a hint of a smile on his face, and it makes me even more livid.
“You think this is funny?” He clearly does—he doesn’t need to tell me—and he’s trying to hide it, like some kind of amused parent about to crack up at their toddler. “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”
“Jesus,” the guy says again. He slides a hand under my elbow and grips me tightly, steering me away from the counter. “Relax. Please, just—relax. We’re good, okay?”
My cheeks burn. Not only am I embarrassed that a complete stranger is practically manhandling me in front of everyone in my favorite coffee shop, but I have the sudden realization of just how close this man is. How solid he is, how huge his palm is under my elbow. How good he smells.
Damn. I’m all over the place. I need to get a grip.
I shake myself loose from his grasp. I’m about to tell him that telling a woman to relax will never score you any points—and neither will physically moving her out the way—but then I look up into his face again, and I forget everything I was going to say.
His eyes are the deepest blue I’ve ever seen, and they’re fixed on mine.
“We’re good,” he repeats. “Okay? That… came out worse than I meant it to.”
It seems like he’s trying to apologize, but at this point I don’t care.
I’m too embarrassed, too annoyed at the world, and I’ve had way too little coffee to be dealing with this kind of shit.
I’m also still stuck on this guy’s eyes—and his perfectly chiseled jawline, which I’m pretty sure could cut ice if he’d let me test it out.
Come to think of it, there are a few other things I’d like to test out with him.
But the guy’s a jerk, and I’m not here for snarky remarks. I’ve got to get to the library. The stakeholder meeting is about to start, and if I want any hope in hell of getting them to hear my side of things, I’d better not be late.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say, pushing past him and out the door without a look behind. He’s even more built than I thought, and the solid pushback of his shoulder as I pass him almost makes me wistful.
But it takes a lot for me to let my guard down. And now’s not the time to start getting soft. I’m going to need every ounce of fight I have to take on whoever planned this restoration-turned-modernization project.
That library’s my whole childhood. It’s my safe place. And it needs to be preserved, exactly the way it’s always been. Mom wanted it that way. It’s the last connection I have to my mother, and if it’s changed—if it becomes unrecognizable—I don’t know how I’m going to hang on to her.
Which means I don’t know how I’m going to hang on to me.