BAM-The Beginning (Vested Interest)
Page 5
“Aiden, no one is around. No one knew my schedule but you, Greg, and me. You can watch me walk in, and be back in forty-five.”
“I don’t like it.”
I held up my hand. “I want a coffee and some time to read the paper. Go.” I grabbed my newspaper and flung open the door. “I know lots of self-defense moves—you trained me yourself. If someone comes at me with a coffee cup, I can take them.”
I slammed the door behind me, and strode across the street, not giving him a chance to argue. I was certain he’d go grab something and sit around the corner watching, but that was up to him. I was in a public place, and highly doubted I was in danger. He was being his typical, overprotective self. I wanted to be alone and gather my thoughts. And coffee was on the agenda.
It wasn’t one of the chain shops, but it was packed. I could smell the baked goods and rich scent of coffee in the air. People were everywhere, coming and going. All the tables were full, but I could see a few were getting ready to leave. I stood in line, tapping my foot impatiently, waiting my turn. I got my coffee in a takeaway cup, and added a cranberry-lemon scone to my order that looked tempting. After paying, I turned and scanned the room, scowling at the lack of an empty table. I walked farther into the store and rounded the corner, spying a vacant chair against the wall. At least I could sit and wait for a table.
I strode toward the corner, cursing when my foot caught on something, sending me lurching to the left. Luckily, I kept hold of my coffee cup, but some of the contents spurted through the opening and landed on the table tucked behind the wall. My paper fell out from under my arm, and my cell phone skittered across the worn linoleum tiles.
“Oh, shit,” a horrified voice exclaimed. “I’m so sorry!”
Without looking, I slammed my cup on the table, then grabbed my paper and phone off the floor. I booted at the shabby rucksack that had tripped me, knocking it out of the way. It was small and old, the edges worn and ragged, the brown color faded in spots.
“Hey, no need to kick my stuff!”
I lifted my head, meeting the angry gaze of the owner of the rucksack. A girl glared back at me, her dark brown eyes challenging.
My gaze flew around the table where she was sitting. All alone at a table for four, she took up the entire area. Books, an old laptop, coffee, an empty plate, a second, larger rucksack, and her jacket were flung around.
“You don’t have enough room? You have to use the floor space, too?”
Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t back down. “It fell off the chair.”
I snagged the handles, dropping it on the empty chair beside her. “You should have picked it up off the floor.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Then stop being such an ass.”
I blinked at her. “You can’t call me an ass.”
“I think I just did.”
“You don’t even know me!”
“So, once I get to know you, I can call you an ass?”
My lips quirked.
“I mean, dude, I said I was sorry, and you’re the one who slopped coffee on my papers,” she responded in a snarky tone, dabbing at the drops of coffee with a napkin. “What else do you want from me?”
Dude?
It took me a moment to find my voice. “The least you could do is to allow me to sit since you’re the only one with any room at their table.”
She pursed her lips and shrugged. “Knock yourself out. I’m working, so don’t bother me.”
“I have no intention of bothering you. I require a place to sit. That is all.”
She waved her hand and bent over her notepad. Sitting, I shook out my paper, folding it into a neat quarter to read an article that caught my eye. I wiped at the damp corner where my coffee had dripped and tried not to glare at the girl who made it happen.
Despite my best intentions, my gaze drifted back to her. She gnawed at the end of her pen as she read her scribbles. Long, curly, honey-gold hair tumbled over her shoulders, and she reached up to toss the long strands back, the movement catching my eye. Her face was oval, her skin creamy. She had high cheekbones, and her mouth was full and rosy. I noticed several glints in her ears, and I caught the flash of color by the back of one lobe. It appeared to be some sort of tattoo. She glanced up, her rich chocolate gaze meeting my stare.
“Want to take a picture?” She winked. “It lasts longer.”
I felt a strange heat creep up my neck, and I cleared my throat. “I was wondering how it was you managed to take up the biggest table in a shop that is so busy at this time of the day, is all.”
Her grin was broad and mischievous. Those chocolate orbs shone with mirth.
“Special privileges.”
I relaxed against the chair back, taking a bite of my scone, closing my eyes briefly in appreciation. It was still warm, thick, dense, and buttery. I swallowed and met her stare. “Oh? How do you rate special privileges?”
She pointed at the scone. “By making those.”
Her words surprised me, and I smiled in delight. “You made these? My compliments to the chef. They’re great—really delicious.”
“Well, the ass has manners.”
“May I remind you it was your rucksack that caused me to trip in the first place?”
“I realize.”
I chuckled. “And still I’m the ass?”
She shrugged and looked back at her notebook. “I call them as I see them.”
I wiped my fingers and took a sip of my coffee. “You bake scones here every day?”
“Every morning before I go to school.”
“School?”
She indicated her books. “Yes.”
“Isn’t it early for classes to be back? It’s only August.”
“I’m taking extra courses over the summer.”
“What are you taking?”
Raising her head, she tapped her pen against her chin, staring at me. Too late, I realized I was talking and interrupting her.
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to interfere with your studies.”
“Are you always so formal?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Like that. Your speech.”
“I suppose I am.”
She glanced around, tugging her sweater tighter. I noticed it was thick and heavy—an odd garment for summer. I felt compelled to ask.
“Do you always wear such thick sweaters in the summer?”
She sighed and shook her head. With a grin, she stuck out her hand.
I looked between it, and her face. Her hand was small, the fingers delicate. There were silver rings on two of her fingers, and a heavy Celtic band on her thumb.
“I’m not going to keep chatting with a complete stranger, even if he’s cute and likes my scones. I’m Emmy.”
She thought I was cute?
“What happened to me being an ass?”
“Oh, I still think you are, but you have a great smile when you relax. So, let’s try this again.” She raised her hand higher. “Hi, stranger, sitting at my table. I’m Emmy.”
Also by Melanie Moreland
Vested Interest Series
Bentley (Vested Interest #1)
Aiden (Vested Interest #2)
Maddox (Vested Interest #3)
Reid (Vested Interest #4)
Van (Vested Interest #5)
Halton (Vested Interest #6)
Sandy (Vested Interest #7) Coming Soon
Insta-Spark Collection
It Started with a Kiss
Christmas Sugar
An Instant Connection
An Unexpected Gift
The Contract Series
The Contract (The Contract #1)
The Baby Clause (The Contract #2)
The Amendment (The Contract #3)
Standalones
Into the Storm
Beneath the Scars
Over the Fence
My Image of You (Random House/Loveswept)
About the Author
New York Times/USA Today bestselling author Melanie Moreland, lives a happy and content life in a quiet area of Ontario with her beloved husband of twenty-eight-plus years and their rescue cat, Amber. Nothing means more to her than her friends and family, and she cherishes every moment spent with them.
While seriously addicted to coffee, and highly challenged with all things computer-related and technical, she relishes baking, cooking, and trying new recipes for people to sample. She loves to throw dinner parties, and enjoys travelling, here and abroad, but finds coming home is always the best part of any trip.
Melanie loves stories, especially paired with a good wine, and enjoys skydiving (free falling over a fleck of dust) extreme snowboarding (falling down stairs) and piloting her own helicopter (tripping over her own feet.) She's learned happily ever afters, even bumpy ones, are all in how you tell the story.
Melanie is represented by Flavia Viotti at Bookcase Literary Agency. For any questions regarding subsidiary or translation rights please contact her at flavia@bookcaseagency.com
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