Chance Encounter
A Fates Aligned Novel
Christi Whitson
Chance Encounter
Copyright © 2019 by Christi Whitson
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or any electronic method, without the prior written permission of the author. This excludes brief quotations used in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination and are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover Design and Formatting: Christi Whitson
Editing: Christi Whitson and Judy McCrary
To my mom, who taught me that motherhood is the ultimate gift.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue
From the Author
Fortune’s Angel - Chapter 1
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Kennedy
There are moments in life that can change you forever, and few of us recognize them for what they are until long after they've passed. Meeting Donovan West was one of those moments. I'd never really believed in all that serendipity bullshit or that some cosmic aligning of fate could bring two people together. That sort of thing only happened in movies and cheesy romance novels. Our love story is messy, complicated, and far from typical. And yet, even with the benefit of hindsight and an opportunity to do it all over, I wouldn't change a thing.
I wouldn't even give him my real name.
One
Kennedy
August 7
I inhaled the cool, fragrant air of the coffee shop with gratitude as I stepped out of the stifling Florida humidity. As any of its visitors or residents can attest, the southeastern United States has arguably one of the most intolerable summer climates in the country, and the city of Tampa is no exception. Thanks to its subtropical location on the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, there are only two basic seasons: the ‘mild and dry’ season and the ‘hot and wet’ season. The month of August falls solidly in the middle of the latter.
A ceiling vent was working overtime just inside the doorway of Cafe Moda, and I paused to let the cool air wash over me, touching a hand to the small of my back where I’d begun to perspire beneath my dress. As a Florida native, I’m fairly well-accustomed to the oppressive heat, but I’d set aside my typical summer wardrobe that afternoon. I’d lose my sanity if I had to dress like that every day.
The heady aroma of fresh coffee seemed to welcome me home despite the fact that I’d never set foot in the place before. Such establishments are a sort of natural habitat for me. Not because I’m addicted to caffeine or moonlight as a barista, but rather because they’re an essential part of my creative process.
Cafe Moda is quite a bit more streamlined than others I’ve frequented, no doubt a product of its location. It’s settled amidst the towering buildings that make up Tampa’s skyline, and its clean, modern decor makes it a perfect habitat for the well-dressed patrons who sip their coffee with one hand and tap away on smartphones with the other.
I joined the queue, trying like hell to look like I belonged among them. In truth, I had no idea what their lives might be like. The business world wasn’t one I was familiar with, but I found it relatively easy to mimic their demeanors. With my iPhone in one hand and my laptop bag hanging over my opposite shoulder, I alternated between pretending to check my email and watching the baristas zip back and forth behind the counter. I kept my expression vacant and detached, as though I were bored by the simple chore of waiting in line for a tall, caramel cappuccino.
Who am I today?
I glanced around casually, taking a moment to study the woman who stood directly in front of me. She was reasonably attractive with black hair that was pulled back into a sleek ponytail. Her skin was a pretty olive tone, and she wore just a little too much eyeliner. Her pencil skirt and tailored jacket were so pristinely white that I wondered at the wisdom of indulging in a cup of coffee. As far as I’m concerned, wearing that much white is just asking the universe to fuck with you.
At that moment, I felt an odd tingle across the back of my neck, and my hair moved a little. It was almost as though someone had gotten too close and exhaled directly onto the exposed skin. I turned reflexively to look for the source, but the man behind me seemed to be keeping a respectable distance. However, what was meant to be a quick glance turned into something much less covert as I caught sight of his face. His dark brown eyes were warm while still somehow managing to pierce right through me.
Holy shit. Is there a modeling agency in this neighborhood? I wanted to roll my eyes at the cliché in my own thoughts, but seriously… This guy belonged on a billboard somewhere, not mingling with the mere mortals consigned to pay homage to the gods of caffeine addiction. He should’ve had an assistant or a groupie fetching his coffee and who knew what else. I wondered if he was taking applications.
Eyes forward, Brighton.
My characteristic awkwardness began to set in as I forced myself to focus on the menu, which was displayed on several LED screens hanging near the ceiling. The words didn’t seem to penetrate my brain, however, and I could practically feel his enigmatic eyes on me. His close proximity had every nerve in my body humming with nervous energy, and I was exponentially more aware of my movements and expressions as we inched toward the front of the line. With my peripheral vision, I curiously assessed his navy suit, crisp white shirt, and silver tie. Although the tie had been loosened slightly, the beautiful man seemed to fit right in with the crowd of professionally-clad coffee drinkers.
Can he tell that I don’t?
While I generally prefer bare legs and shoulders in the summer, I had foregone my usual bohemian style in favor of something much more conservative. Any of my favorite sundresses, noisy flip-flops, or well-worn denim shorts would’ve stood out like a sore thumb and labeled me as an outsider. Instead, I had donned a form-fitting, gray sheath dress and a pair of peep-toe black heels. The only part of my ensemble that might have given anyone a clue as to my misfit status was my laptop bag. It was black canvas rather than leather, and it had certainly seen better days.
Once the raven-haired businesswoman in front of me had finished explaining her ridiculously complicated coffee order to the barista, I stepped up to the counter and tried to ignore the penetrating gaze of the would-be menswear model. The barista gave me a smile of gratitude when I kept my order simple, and I grinned back in understanding. Working in the foodservice industry could be fun at times, but for the most part, it was just exhausting.
“Name?” the girl asked, a Sharpie poised over the styrofoam cup.
“Emma.”
My name is not Emma.
I handed over my credit card and breathed a sigh of relief when she failed to check the name on it. Tucking it back into my wallet, I headed toward the waiting area at the end of the long counter, and when the navy-suited man took his turn to order, I took full advantage of the opportunity to
gawk.
Jesus, that’s unfair, I thought, shaking my head in bewilderment. Men just didn’t look like that in real life. He was more than six feet tall with a head full of wavy brown hair to compliment his dark eyes, and he filled out his suit as though it had been made specifically for him. His angular jaw was clean-shaven, and his fingers trailed over the skin occasionally as though he was unaccustomed to its smoothness. While he lacked the late summer tan of a local, he didn’t really seem like a tourist either. Maybe a businessman traveling for work, I guessed. But despite his attire, there was a definite edge to his appearance, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the navy suit was as unusual for him as the sleek gray dress was for me.
The beautiful man chose that moment to turn and look at me, his lips twitching in what I suspected was smug satisfaction that he’d caught me ogling him. I blushed again and refocused on my task with considerable effort. I was there to work, not check out strange men. Strange, HOT men, I amended silently. I moved forward to retrieve my coffee when my fake name was called, adjusting my laptop bag self-consciously.
I studiously ignored the man’s persistent stare as I settled myself at a small table that offered a booth seat on one side. The mandala-patterned decal on the top of my computer was yet another element that betrayed my true nature, but it was out of sight and out of mind as I opened the screen and brought up a fresh document.
Emma… Who is she? What drives her? What’s her story?
My fingers moved slowly across the keys at first, but they picked up speed as the puzzle pieces of my fictional character began to snap into place. As always, the atmosphere of a busy public place ignited my creativity. Coffee shops are my favorite. The low bustle of noise, the delicious aroma in the air, the rich taste of the coffee on my tongue… All of it inspires me. I smiled happily as I tapped the keys at a feverish pace, bringing Emma to life on my computer screen.
My brain was buzzing with creativity as the sunlight filtering through the window warmed my back. In a mere ten minutes, Emma had been given a full name and the beginnings of a life story. I could almost see her in my mind, as though she were standing right next to me.
She’s a little taller than me and a little prettier. Her hair is a deep, mahogany brown or maybe a sassy, fiery red. When Emma dresses for her high-powered job, she doesn’t look like an impostor. When she speaks, people listen. She’s confident, bold, a risk-taker. She flirts with handsome men and never feels, even for a moment, that she’s unworthy of their attention. Emma knows what she wants and does whatever it takes to get it.
And I was going to make sure she got her happy ending.
My mind was so full of Emma that it took me a moment to realize someone actually was standing next to the table. When I registered the appearance of the navy blue dress pants in my periphery, I immediately looked up to find those intense, dark eyes staring down at me. It was a true testament to the power of my creative process that I’d managed to temporarily forget the walking sex symbol who had apparently been watching me the whole time.
“Hello. Emma, right?” He stunned me with his perfect smile as he gestured toward my coffee cup.
Well, shit.
“Um…”
“Donovan.”
He held out a hand in greeting, and I took it hesitantly. My skin tingled a little where it met his, reminding me of the sensation I’d felt on the back of my neck earlier.
“Nice to meet you,” I managed, smiling back at him with more confidence than I actually felt. He moved his hand to the back of the chair across from me and quirked his brow upward.
“May I?”
“Sure.”
This is where you tell him your real name, Kennedy.
But the words didn’t come. Even I had to admit that my writing process was a bit unique. Okay, more like bizarre and possibly bordering on schizophrenic at times. He was bound to question my sanity if I told him the truth. What would a male-model-slash-sex-god know about writing? And why on earth was he talking to me?
One part of my brain told me to come clean about the fake name, but another urged me to run with it. I’d created a character, after all, and this was a chance to step into her fictional shoes. It might even help me with the writing process, I reasoned. And there was no denying that this guy was a writer’s dream. Donovan was by far the most attractive man I’d ever seen up close. I could smell what I assumed must be very expensive cologne even amidst the overpowering scent of coffee, and his voice was smooth enough to dampen a girl’s panties with just a few words.
What would Emma do?
“I haven’t seen you in here before. Do you come here often?” he asked, forcing me to make a decision then and there.
“No, it’s the first time.” That part was actually true. “You?”
“More than I care to admit. They have exclusive rights to this particular brand,” he explained with a sexy grin, lifting his cup slightly. “I didn’t realize it was their proprietary blend until I’d already formed an addiction to it.”
“Then they have you right where they want you.”
“That they do,” Donovan laughed, and I couldn’t help but chuckle along with him. My mouth went dry as I watched him take a long drink, his throat flexing as he swallowed. I channeled Emma and pushed for more.
“So, I take it you work in the area, then?”
“Just down the street at The Aviston. Have you heard of it?” I had, but I quickly decided Emma had not and shook my head. “It’s a restaurant,” he clarified.
“What do you do there?”
“I’m a chef.”
Seriously? I glanced down at his suit and canted my head with a disbelieving smile.
“You don’t look like a chef.”
You look like liquid sex poured into a suit. He gave a modest little shrug as though he could hear my thoughts.
“I only dress like this for budget meetings. The manager likes everyone to look their best when the owners are there.”
I nodded in understanding but grappled for something clever to say in response. My gaze had gotten caught on his mouth as he’d spoken, and everything had gone a bit fuzzy. I barely managed to stay in character when he asked a question of his own.
“How about you? How is it you’re not addicted to the coffee here like everyone else in the area?”
“Well, I’m not actually from Tampa,” I lied. “I’m just visiting some friends for a few days, but I’m considering relocating.” I glanced surreptitiously at the screen of my laptop, thankful he couldn’t see the notes I’d typed.
“Relocating from…?”
“Jacksonville. I’m in advertising.”
He leaned forward, clearly interested. Uh oh.
“And you’re looking for a job here?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I like where I am now, but Tampa is closer to my family.” Another truth.
“You looked so focused on what you were doing earlier. I assumed I’d be interrupting you while you were working.”
“Oh…” My eyes shifted guiltily to my laptop again. “I was, sort of. I’m primarily a graphic artist for my agency, but I also do a little copywriting. I like to sit in places like this and… people watch. You know, brainstorm.”
The little nuggets of truth were making me feel slightly less ashamed for misleading him. He really did seem like a nice guy. But I’d leapt feet-first into this rabbit hole, and there was nothing to do now but follow it all the way to the bottom. The odds that I’d ever even cross paths with Donovan again were pathetically slim. I rarely had cause to venture downtown, despite living only fifteen minutes away.
While I certainly hadn’t missed the way his eyes kept moving up and down my body, I knew I could never satisfy someone like him. He was flirting with Emma, in her black power pumps and sexy gray dress. I was sure that if I’d been sitting there in my sandals, short shorts, and peasant top, he wouldn’t have given me a second glance, except perhaps to note that I clearly didn’t belong there.
“So,
that’s what you’re doing today? Brainstorming?” His question reclaimed my attention, and I smiled in spite of myself, my face feeling suddenly warm.
“More or less.”
“And you might be moving here,” he stated, his brown eyes sparkling at me from across the table. It was almost as though he were truly excited by the idea.
Damn, Emma is good.
“Maybe. I have family in Palma Ceia.” I wondered if he noticed my nervousness as I revealed yet another fact that hadn’t come from Emma’s bio.
“But not in Jacksonville?
Is that a backwards way of asking if I’m single?
“No. Just me.” I felt myself blush again, drawn to him against my better judgment. “You?”
“No, I don’t have family in Jacksonville,” he chuckled. I laughed along with him, and the sound of our mingled laughter was somehow harmonic.
“I meant family here.”
“Oh, right, well… I grew up in this area. My parents live in a suburb on the north side of the city. They manage a little community of vacation rental condos.”
“There seem to be a lot of those around here,” I commented, sipping my coffee with a smile. I had several acquaintances who did the very same thing, and I knew it was a lucrative business.
“Probably no more than anywhere else in Florida, but I know what you mean. So much of the state’s population is transient. Any time you meet someone new, you’ve got an even chance of them being a tourist.”
We laughed in harmony again, and I found myself growing more interested in him. It was foolish. I knew that. But I also knew my time with him was limited. I probably had minutes at most, and I sincerely doubted I would ever get another chance to have a real conversation with a guy like him. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Guys who looked like that were almost always full of themselves, expecting women to fall all over them at the first flash of their perfectly white smiles. Donovan was… different.
“So, is your restaurant a nice one?”
Chance Encounter (Fates Aligned Book 1) Page 1
