HT Scrappily HEA A15

by Travis, Haley

  Ah, dammit.

  My fist pounds the counter, making the candlesticks at the end shake. Steel courses through my veins as I straighten up.

  I’ve always liked to think of myself as a tough guy. I certainly can’t let a crush on a girl turn me inside out. Tomorrow I’m going to walk into that coffee shop and talk to her. I’ll return her note, I’ll ask about the fancy pen, we’ll laugh.

  This is actually a great plan. Simple. Logical.

  And in twenty-four hours, I’m going to know her name and where she works. Then I can start making a blueprint to make her fall in love with me.

  Yeah, I hear how terrible that sounds too.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ~ Clare ~

  I love being on a set schedule. There is something so soothing about going to bed, getting up, and leaving the house at precisely the same time every day. In a chaotic world, it holds me together.

  Packing my purse and shoulder bag for the workday, I fill my pouch of teabags for the office, and stash two organic granola bars. After checking my hair, I realize I look a bit pale, so I swipe on some mascara and lip gloss. Better.

  My ritual brings me comfort. I don’t want to be boring, I want to be steady. Composed. Timeless. Having at least a third of my day repeating perfectly gives me a sense of calm.

  Heck. Maybe I just need an antidote to the constant stream of drama in my family’s lives.

  My parents’ bickering and bitching is getting louder by the day, and it has graduated from merely distracting to full blown annoying.

  I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. They’ve given me so much. But some days I honestly want to bash their perfectly-coiffed heads together just to enjoy the clanging sound.

  This morning they had been snapping at each other over breakfast, freaking out about the guest list for my older brother Glen’s pre-engagement party. My dad thought the entire event was completely stupid, and thought that if they wanted to have a fancy party, just call it something else.

  Although I would never say it aloud for fear of contributing to the chaos, I agreed wholeheartedly. Actually, no-heartedly. My heart has never been into their ridiculous attention seeking events.

  My mother, on the other hand, thought it was darling. Mind you, Glen could attempt to throw a party celebrating his latest bowel movement and she’d be on board. She practically kisses the ground he walks on.

  Now that I think about it, maybe Dad is jealous. I don’t blame him. I almost am myself.

  Glen is the golden boy who can do no wrong. At twenty-seven he is already a lawyer, with a huge circle of friends. His perfect blonde girlfriend Patrice kisses my mother’s butt so much I’m surprised there’s ever any gloss left on her lips.

  Nope, there’s no way I can listen to my parent’s bickering once more second. I race out the door almost an hour early, practically twisting an ankle on the marble staircase.

  I can’t get to work early since Mr. Egler doesn’t arrive until two minutes to nine, and the doors will be locked. My boss doesn’t trust me yet with a key, since I’ve only been there two months.

  So I walk to Henry’s Coffee, the wonderfully kitschy coffee shop I discovered a few weeks ago. Their selection of tea is so incredible that it has made it worth revamping my routine. My silly little mission of going through every flavor gives me an extra morning boost.

  “Good morning, Claire.” Henry’s voice booms gently through the shop. I think it’s hilarious how he announces people’s names as if they’re royalty walking into a ballroom.

  “Good morning, Henry. Tea, please.”

  “Of course.” He reaches over to the shelf filled with beautiful ornate boxes. After pointing to yesterday’s choice, his hand moves one box to the right. “Ceylon today?”

  “Perfect. Thanks.”

  Looking around the room, there is the usual mix of students, hipsters, and office workers. I can’t help wondering how many are trapped in between places to be, killing time, like I am.

  I choose a table near the window. It’s perfect: the table itself is in the light, and the chair isn’t. I don’t want to overheat and have my hair go limp.

  I pull out a wonderful book about the history of papermaking. It’s a perfect way to start my morning on a calm, steady note, hopefully erasing the stress of my parents’ childish tiff.

  As I start my second cup of tea approximately half an hour later, I glance out the window to see a large man in dark, slightly distressed jeans and a black t-shirt.

  He is precisely the sort of man I shouldn’t stare at, according to my mother, so naturally I’ve been staring at him whenever I see him in this neighborhood.

  The way he walks is riveting. He’s clearly never practiced it. My brother's courtroom and boardroom strut, like a fussy, arrogant boy, is so practiced, completely different from his regular walk.

  This man walks with purpose and power. He’s clearly someone who would never bother to put on airs. He walks like someone who doesn’t give a damn. It’s ridiculously hot.

  His t-shirt is stretched snugly across his chest, and I feel the unusual urge to run my hand along it just to feel the ripples and dips. As he comes toward the shop, I am rewarded with a much closer look at his rugged profile, and deep, smoky eyes.

  The guy is a freakin’ hottie.

  I hold up my book to hide my face, certain that I am blushing. I’ve never had any idea how to behave around men, so I avoid them completely outside of the office, and basic social interactions like my parents’ endless parties.

  There is no way on earth I’d ever be able to talk to a man that gorgeous.

  Yet, I want to. Not just because it would make my heart do strange little flips even more than it already is. I need some new opinions on a work project, and I don’t know anyone to ask other than my family, and my new book club, which is all women.

  I need a man.

  Hearing him order a coffee and bagel in a gruff, smoky voice sends prickles through the back of my shoulder blades.

  After reading the same sentence several times, my eyes dart over to rake down his black clothing. Wow. My heart actually feels like it is fluttering in my chest. I’ve never felt this way before. It’s sort of exciting, and sort of terrifying at the same time.

  Although my eyes lock onto my book before he turns around, he’s such a huge presence that I feel him stop in his tracks. I casually look up to find he is staring straight at me.

  His boots thump slightly as he steps toward my table. “Hi.”

  I look up into the most incredible deep brown eyes on the entire planet, guaranteed.

  It feels like I stare at him with my mouth open for a full ten minutes, but I sincerely hope that it was shorter.

  “Hi.”

  “May I join you for a moment?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  He sets his things on the empty end of my table, then reaches into his pocket before he sits down.

  A strangely sheepish expression takes over his face as he holds out a piece of cream paper. “You dropped this yesterday. Not sure if it was important.”

  Taking it from his thick, work worn fingers, my instant laughter makes him smile slightly. “It’s not important, but thank you. It’s one of my many pen tests.”

  He leans back casually, taking a sip of coffee before he speaks. “I always just scribble on the back of a receipt to see if a pen works.”

  “Oh, but there’s so more to it than that,” I explain. “Different inks soak into the paper at different rates, with varying degrees of feathering. The color can also shift as the ink dries, depending on the percentage of cotton or other materials mixed into the paper.”

  His thick left eyebrow raises as he smirks at me, and I can tell that he’s playful. “You’re a pen and paper expert?”

  “Sort of, yes.”

  He nods, then holds out his hand. “Shane Edwards. I run the antiques and restorations shop across the street.”

  He takes my hand so gently that I’m able to feel his calluses. Why
on earth is his rough, well worked hand so incredibly sexy? I’m pretty sure my face is flaming.

  “Claire Cumberland. Marketing assistant at Egler’s Stationery.”

  He releases my hand slowly, as I refrain from sticking out my bottom lip in protest.

  His hands. The different texture. Perfect.

  “Hey, do you have a minute for a little favor?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  Shane may or may not have ever been informed regarding how devastatingly naughty his smirk is, but either way he is using it to its full advantage.

  Pulling an envelope full of journal cover samples from my shoulder bag, I yank them out and fan them across the table. “Could you please touch these, and tell me which you’d prefer on a notebook cover?”

  The eyebrow twitches again. “Do I really look like the kind of guy who writes in a diary?”

  Pressing my lips together hard, I barely manage to stifle my giggle. “You never know. You might have notes to write down for work,” I shrug. “Shopping lists for materials. Customer details. That sort of thing.”

  “I’m not a paper expert. Why would my opinion mean anything?”

  “You’re a normal guy. I need opinions from all sorts of people. Call it market research.”

  “Normal,” he says, shaking his head with a laugh. “All right.”

  He picks up each piece and runs his thumb over the surface. He tosses most of them in a pile on the left, and a few in a pile on the right. It is absolutely charming the way he takes his time and actually puts some thought into it.

  The fluttering deep in my belly from watching him gently stroke different textures is completely ridiculous.

  Finally he sets a few to one side. “These three look the most durable,” he says. “I wouldn’t be afraid to touch them with dirty hands. They’d probably wipe off.”

  I have to admit, having a private focus group with a total stranger is oddly fun.

  Taking a sip of tea, I notice him sniffing the air.

  “Wait,” he asks, “You come to a coffee shop to drink tea?”

  I laugh for a second. “I love the smell of coffee. But the flavor just isn’t quite right for me, so I drink tea. Maybe it’s because my great-great-grandmother was British.”

  His smile is so sexy. “My grandmother was Scottish, and drank tea like crazy.”

  We are already talking about each other’s families. This has to be a good sign.

  Focus, Claire. Work first, always.

  I toss the unchosen pile back in the envelope, then point to the ones that are left.

  “So out of these three, which do you think is the most inviting?”

  He shoots me a weird look. “How can a piece of plastic or fake leather be inviting?”

  “You know…like, you want to touch it more.”

  Shane makes a slight snorting noise. “I’m sorry, I really don’t get that attached to books.”

  He holds up a thin piece of flexible plastic. “This would probably stand up to being jammed in a pocket, and falling off the workbench,” he says. “It’s not inviting, but it’s practical.”

  “Yes, but try to picture it…” I reach out to flip the piece of plastic in his hand so that the textured side was on top, accidentally sliding the corner across the base of his thumb.

  His hand flinches almost imperceptibly, then I see that the plastic is turning red.

  “That little jerk has a sharp edge.” His deep voice is almost a chuckle, but all I can see are droplets of red hitting the table top. Then more of them. A lot of them. Then everything goes blurry. And dark.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ~ Shane ~

  Watching Claire’s eyes roll to the back of her head while she slithers to the floor is absolutely horrifying. I catch her just in time to stop her skull from bouncing off the tile.

  Luckily, Henry has a little sofa in his back room, so we take her there so she can lie down. He also has a first aid kit and I quickly tape up my sliced hand. I don’t care about the cut itself, but wouldn’t want Claire to see any more blood. That obviously freaks her right out.

  After Henry goes back out to the front, I kneel beside her, laid out like a pale princess. My non-bandaged hand grazes her hair gently. “Claire? Can you hear me?”

  Her chin tips up and down in a tiny nod, but as she burrows deeper into the sofa, it seems like she doesn’t want to wake up.

  My thumb slides across the edge of her soft, delicate cheek, then I snatch my hand back. She’s so graceful and refined. A nice girl who might not want a junk dealer as a boyfriend.

  I can’t tear my eyes from her perfect face.

  I’ve never wanted a woman so much in my life. She is going to be mine. Somehow, I'm going to make everything work out for me. For us.

  Since I’m a complete loner, totally unskilled in the ways of wooing a woman, this is going to be an interesting proposition. But I’ve never backed down from a challenge before. She seems to like me at least a bit. It’s a start.

  Her phone rings from inside her purse, and her eyes snap open.

  As she scrambles to answer it, I keep a hand on her shoulder. “Steady,” I said softly. “Stay lying down for a minute.”

  She grabs the phone, and I notice the caller ID reads Mr. Egler.

  “Hello?”

  She is so close that I can hear the other man speaking. “Claire, my dear, I’m just checking in. You’ve never been late before.”

  “Oh – I…” she sits up, startled as her eyes grew wide, staring frantically around the break room, trying to remember where she is.

  I gently take the phone from her hand. “Hello, Mr. Egler. I’m a friend of Claire’s. She’s fine, but she had a little mishap this morning. She’ll either be at work soon, or if I need to run her to the doctor, I’ll call you on the way.”

  “Oh my goodness. Is she all right?” I appreciate the genuine concern in his voice.

  “She fainted. She’s likely fine, but I want to keep her sitting up for another few minutes.”

  “Absolutely. Please take care of her, and keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  I end the call and drop the phone into her purse as Claire cocks her head, staring at me strangely.

  “Shane?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why…how are you so sweet?”

  I’ve been called many things in my life, but never that. It actually shakes me for a second.

  “How do you feel?” I ask. “Is your vision clear? Are you dizzy?”

  She shakes her head for a second, then freezes. “Oh. I think I’m fine as long as I don’t move my head a lot.”

  I smile. “Well, don’t move it, then.”

  I reach over to an industrial shelf that holds several flats of fruit juice and sparkling water. I crack an orange juice open, then place it in her hand. “Here. Drink half of that.”

  Claire nods, sipping slowly.

  I don’t know why I assumed her eyes would be blue. They are, in fact, a warm golden caramel brown. I’ve always been a sucker for a brown eyed brunette, but this little dewy eyed doll of a girl is stratospheres out of my league. Hell, I don’t think there are even leagues for guys like me.

  “Thank you for taking care of me.” She’s so adorable with her knees tucked under her, curled up in her little sweater.

  My hand darts out to examine a button at her waist. “This is vintage.”

  “Yes. I like secondhand clothes.”

  “Why?”

  Those perfect lips turn up in a gorgeous smile. “I don’t like wasting things. They should be used until they fall apart.”

  I chuckle. “I agree completely. That’s one of the reasons I restore antiques.”

  Again, that beautiful smile. “I also like knowing that nobody else in the room is ever going to be wearing the same outfit.”

  “So you like to be unique?”

  She begins to tip her head back and forth as she thinks, then stops moving. “I guess. I mean, I don’t care what anyone
thinks of my style, I just don’t want anyone to think that I’m a cookie-cutter girl. Do you know what I mean?”