by Brynley Bush
Chapter Two
LEILA
Of all the egotistical, self-absorbed, cocky guys I’ve ever met—and I’ve met a lot—the guy at Achilles HeAl officially takes the cake. Back at Simple Kneads, my grandmother’s bakery and cafe next door where I’ve been helping out for the last few months, I take out my frustrations with the male population in general on a blob of dough that will become tomorrow’s fresh baked bread.
Who the hell does think he is? God’s gift to women? He was undeniably gorgeous, with dark hair, a sexy scruff of a beard, brandy-colored brown eyes, and a devil-may-care grin with a sexy edge that always means bad news. Before he even opened his mouth, I could tell he was the kind of guy who’s used to women falling all over him because of his bad-boy looks. Not the kind of guy who’d ever be interested in me. Of course, I’d never give him the time of day either. I’m done with men, especially too attractive for their own good men. But my god…that body! He walked with a slight limp, but he had the hard carved muscles of an underwear model or a professional athlete.
The last time I let myself fall for a guy, I’d lost both my heart and my job. I punch the dough violently. Of course, I should have listened when everyone had told me not to date my boss. But Henry had been like a candle and I was the moth, powerless to stay away.
He was ambitious, sensitive, complex, and just my type—attractive in a slightly disheveled, disarming, intellectual sort of way, with a brain to match his understated good looks. He was the wonder boy editor of Edge magazine—a new, unconventionally progressive magazine in New York, and I was a starry-eyed girl fresh out of journalism school who’d always been too busy studying to date much. I’d been thrilled when I’d gotten the job. I’d been even more thrilled when, nine months later, after I’d won a small award for a piece I’d done on a young rapper in Harlem who hit it big shortly after the article ran, the intellectual darling of New York had devoted himself to sweeping me off my feet. Not that it had been hard.
We’d dated for two years. Then, three months ago I’d walked in on him fucking Amanda—a bright and eager twenty-two-year-old intern with a trust fund, a brand new diploma from Columbia, and thinly-veiled adoration for her new boss. My first reaction had been surprise. Sex with Henry had always seemed lackluster, but I didn’t have much to compare it to, and I figured a lack of passion was a small price to pay for being with someone who was my soulmate in every other way. But seeing his head buried between her thigh-high stocking-clad legs, something he’d never been willing to do with me, had been too much.
He fired me over artistic differences, the difference being that I didn’t think he should be banging his intern while dating me. I’ve heard through the grapevine she took my position, both at the magazine and in his bed.
I’d walked out of Henry’s office that day and never looked back. My grandfather had died a few months before, and my grandmother was struggling to run her café and bakery while dealing with her grief. So I’d come back to Fort Collins to lick my wounds and patch up my heart before looking for another journalism job. The granddaughter of one of my nana’s friends was subletting her apartment in Old Town while she studied abroad for the summer, and I’d taken it as an omen. I’d cut myself off completely from the world of journalism, barely even glancing at a newspaper, and focused solely on baking and getting my grandmother’s business affairs in order.
It’s been just what I needed, but I’m starting to feel the itch to get out there and do what I was born to do, to hear people’s stories again and share them with the world. And my grandmother’s heart has begun to heal as well. She has good friends here, and her café to keep her busy. It’s time for both of us to move on.
“Are you planning to bake the bread or kill it first?” she asks as she walks back into the kitchen. “Who’re you mad at?”
I look over at her fondly. My nana and I have always been close, and I’m glad we’ve had this time together. It’s been good for both of us.
“Sorry. Just thinking about men. And how Eve should have just given the rib back, made herself an apple pie, and saved us all from having to put up with men,” I grumble.
Nana laughs. “Don’t let one bad apple spoil the barrel, Leila. Speaking of men, I just got off the phone with my friend Rosie. Her grandson is in town for the next few weeks helping her out and he doesn’t know anyone in Fort Collins. We were thinking the two of you could meet for a drink. Maybe you could show him around a little while he’s here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Nana,” I say hastily, dumping the dough into two greased and floured pans and then sliding them expertly into the oven. If writing wasn’t in my blood, I could be quite happy baking bread and muffins for the rest of my life. There’s something uniquely cathartic about it. “I’m not looking for anything with a man until hell starts to freeze over. Besides, I don’t think I’m going to be here much longer.” I take a deep breath and tell her what’s been swirling around in my head for the last few days. “We’re both doing better. I think it’s time I get back to my life. I’m going to start looking for another journalism job.”
My grandmother wraps me in her arms, transferring flour from her apron onto my overalls.
“It’s about time, sweetie,” she says kindly. She tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “Live life to the fullest, darling. It only happens once. Which is why you should meet Rosie’s grandson. He’s only here for a few weeks himself. He lives somewhere in the northeast. New Jersey I think. Besides, I’m just suggesting you meet him for a drink, not that you screw his brains out. Although I certainly wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to do that too. Rosie says he’s quite attractive.”
“Nana!” I say, shocked, but we’re both laughing, and the next thing I know, I’ve agreed to meet her friend’s grandson Friday night at eight.
My grandmother had insisted on driving me to the New Belgium Brewery, where I’m meeting her friend Rosie’s grandson, Knox, for a drink, and I feel like a seventh-grader being dropped off for the school dance.
“I could have driven myself,” I protest for the umpteenth time. “Or walked.”
I’d chosen the place partly because it’s one of the most iconic craft beer breweries in the nation and partly because it’s within walking distance of my apartment in Old Town. If things get too awkward, I’ll just make up an excuse and leave.
“Nonsense,” Nana says. “Rosie and I can make the introductions before we leave for book club.”
“You’re coming in with me?” I ask, horrified.
“Well, how else are you going to know which one he is?” she asks practically.
I sigh. I’ve sunk to a new low, even for me.
I follow her into the brewpub, taking a perverse satisfaction in the appreciative glances I get, and even a wolf whistle from a group of college guys. It’s been ages since I’ve been out, and on a whim I’d decided to dress up, choosing a pair of tight-fitting jeans that hug my ass, a gray tank top under a cropped leather jacket, and black wedge heels. After weeks of putting my hair up in a ponytail at the café, it’s been nice to leave it down, and I took time tonight to actually put on more makeup than a quick swipe of mascara. I look pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. Too bad Henry’s not here to see me and kick himself in the balls for letting me go. Actually, I’d probably beat him to it.
I realize Nana has stopped at a table in the corner, and I see a small woman with silvery-gray hair pulled back into an elegant ponytail sitting there, still beautiful despite her age. Or maybe because of it. She looks like a woman who has lived life to its fullest.
“This is my friend Rosie,” Nana says.
We exchange pleasantries while I covertly glance around the table, looking for her grandson.
“Knox went outside to take a phone call,” Rosie explains. “Oh. Here he comes now.”
I follow her gaze.
“Oh, shit,” I breathe. Walking toward us, looking like sin in tight-fitting jeans and a black Henley, is the man from Achilles HeAl.
“This is your friend’s granddaughter?” he asks Rosie incredulously.
“Yes, dear. This is Leila Patton, the one I was telling you about.” She looks at him more closely. “Do you two know each other?”
“I…um…we met briefly at Achilles HeAl yesterday,” I explain hastily. “I was dropping off lunch from the café.”
“Oh, well isn’t that wonderful?” My nana’s smiling like I just told them I’d won the lottery. “Well, you won’t need us old folks sticking around getting in the way then. Rosie, are you ready?”
“Yes. Can you drop me off at home afterwards? I came with Knox.” Her gaze swivels to me. “He can give you a ride home.”
“That’s okay,” I protest hastily. “I can walk.”
“Nonsense!” She turns to Knox and gives him a pointed stare. “Be a gentleman and give the lady a ride home. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says politely, but the corners of his mouth are tilting up good-naturedly. “Anything else?”
“You two have fun,” she adds with a little wave, and then she and my nana are gone, leaving me alone with the blind date from hell.
“Look, we don’t have to do this,” I begin. “My nana said her friend’s grandson was visiting for a few weeks and was bored and wanted someone to show him around. I expected…” I trail off. What had I expected? Someone quiet and unassuming, maybe even a little socially awkward. Definitely not this supremely confident, gorgeous guy who could have a different date every night of the week. I clear my throat. “Since you’re used to women staring at you all the time, I’m sure you don’t really need me to show you around.”
He shoots me an irresistible smile and my stomach inexplicably plummets to my toes. God, he is way too attractive. I remind myself that he’s an asshole.
“Well, no. Probably not,” he concedes, but his eyes are dancing. “And I’m only here for a few weeks. But watching Downton Abbey is getting a little old.” I notice that his eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles. “Besides, we’ll disappoint our grandmothers if we don’t stay a few minutes and at least have one drink.”
“That’s true.” I fiddle with my napkin. Nana was so pleased to see me dressed up and going out, and she’s obviously close friends with his grandmother. But I am so out of my comfort zone with this chiseled god of a man! Still, I can survive one drink with him. Especially since he seems to be less full of himself today. Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot yesterday. “Okay. One drink.”
Our eyes meet briefly and the magnetic pull of him is palpable. I quickly look away.
Despite my protests that I can order and pay for myself, he goes to the bar and comes back with a sampler of beers. I can’t help but notice his uneven gait again.
“You’re limping. What happened?” I select a glass from the tray and take a long, healthy swig. Hopefully the cold beer will dampen my libido as well as my throat.
“Injured my hip pointer. It should be good as new in a few weeks. That is, if I survive therapy at Achilles HeAl.” He flashes that charming grin again and I can’t help but smile back.
“I’ve heard they’re tough, but they get results,” I agree. Realization slowly dawns and I can feel my face flush. “Oh, crap. You don’t work there, do you?”
He shakes his head, his sensual lips tipping up at the corners again.
“You were there the other day for physical therapy?”
He nods.
I put my head in my hands. “Oh my god. I’m sorry. No wonder you were so weird when I asked you to sign the lunch check.”
“I wasn’t weird,” he protests with mock indignation. “I was mildly humiliated. After all, you’d just watched me crawl across the floor with protein shake all over my shirt.”
I can’t help but laugh. Maybe it won’t be that bad spending an hour with him. But I still have a hard time buying that a guy who looks like Knox needs to be set up for anything.
“So you really don’t know anyone in town?” I ask skeptically.
“My brother’s here, but he spends every second with his girlfriend, and third-wheeling isn’t my style. Unless I’m participating, of course.” He winks at me, and I have a completely inappropriate tingling between my thighs at the image that comes to mind—me in the arms of this gorgeous specimen of manhood, those big, capable-looking hands traveling across my flesh as another set of hands cups my breasts…
I clear my throat. “Um. That’s it? Just your brother?”
He flashes me that wolfish grin again. “Well, there’s Stella, but she’s only interested in wrapping herself around me in bed.”
I choke on the beer I’ve just taken a sip of, and Knox slaps my back. He keeps his hand there, and the solid weight of it, even through my thin leather jacket, gives me little shivers.
“You okay?” His eyes are concerned, but I’m not falling for his bullshit again. My first impression had been right. He’s a womanizing, cocky bastard. What kind of asshole brings up another woman he’s sleeping with on a blind date with a woman he doesn’t even know?
“I’m fine,” I say primly, shifting away from him deliberately. He drops his hand. “Look, we can just call it a night so you can get back to Stella. Don’t worry. I’ll cover for you and tell my nana that we enjoyed a nice evening.”
I’m scooting my chair back when his strong fingers close over mine, stopping me. His warm brown eyes are crinkling at the corners again. “You’re a touchy one, aren’t you? Stella is my grandmother’s cat.”
“Oh.” I flush with embarrassment. This is becoming a regrettably frequent occurrence around him.
“C’mon, Leila. Stay. Please. You can tell me why you hate men so much.” He sounds sincere, almost cajoling.
“I don’t hate men,” I protest. I consider my options. I could go home now, but the thought of another night alone binge watching Friends on Netflix is utterly depressing. My grandmother has a more exciting social life than I do. It’s time to stop letting Henry run, and ruin, my life. I take a deep breath. “I’ll stay. But just for an hour.”
One hour turns into two, and when we’ve finished the beer sampler, we order another, and then another. Knox is surprisingly easy to talk to. Like me, he’s in Fort Collins temporarily to help out his grandmother, and he tells me about her heart attack and how he and his cousins have been taking turns staying with her and fixing up her rambling old house in the process. Unlike me, he has a job that he has to get back to, so he’s only here for a month. He says something about making a few bad choices, and how coming to Fort Collins was a much-needed opportunity to take a step back from his real life and reevaluate, and I lift my glass in slightly drunken solidarity.
“Fuck, yes,” I agree. I’ve had enough to drink that my natural reserve has lowered significantly. “Here’s to bad choices and wrong turns.”
Knox winks at me as he lifts his glass in return. “Bad decisions make the best stories.”
We clink glasses and I realize I’m actually enjoying myself. Knox is the antithesis of the type of guy I’m usually attracted to, and since a guy like him would conversely never be interested in a girl like me either, there’s no expectation that this will extend beyond this one night of friendly camaraderie. It’s unexpectedly fun and downright liberating to just laugh and talk with no undercurrent of “what does he think of me” or “will he ask me out again.” He also has an easy-going charm and a sense of humor that’s infectious. Although I don’t intend to, I somehow end up telling him about Henry, embellishing the story about how I walked in on him with Amanda just to hear that deep baritone chuckle.
When we finally stop laughing, he says sincerely, “I’m sorry that happened to you, but he wasn’t the right guy for you.”
“But he was!” I protest. “He was totally my type.”
“And what exactly is your type, Leila Patton
?” He’s suddenly serious, his voice low.
“Well, the opposite of you really.” After three hours, enough beers that I’ve lost count of how many we’ve had, and me sharing the humiliating discovery of my boyfriend doing the lickety-split with another woman, I figure we’re comfortable enough with one another to be completely honest. Besides, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
“I’m every girl’s type.” He’s smiling that cocky smile of his, but there’s a flash of hurt in his warm brown eyes that’s gone so fast I’m convinced I must have imagined it. After all, what insecurities could a guy like Knox Beckinsale possibly have.
“See? That’s exactly what makes you NOT my type.” I enumerate the reasons a guy like him is wrong for me on my fingers. “You’re cocky. You’re egotistical. You’re used to women falling all over you. And you’re way too attractive.”
“What? That’s a drawback? That’s not even my fault!” he protests laughingly.
I shush him with a finger to his lips. “It doesn’t matter. Still counts. Besides, there’s more.” I continue my list. “You’re probably athletic; I’m totally clumsy. You look like the kind of guy who might like camping, which in my opinion is paying good money to live like a homeless person. You’re too experienced. You’re too sexy. And you’re way too dangerous.” Seriously dangerous. There’s an undeniable aura of natural authority and confidence about him that’s intriguing, but a little intimidating too.
“You find me sexy?” He’s smiling, and I feel my stomach plummet to my toes.
“Well, in theory. But as I said, you are so NOT my type!”
He leans forward, his face just inches from mine, and my breath hitches. “You still haven’t answered the question. What is your type?”
