Impressions of You (The Impressions Series Book 1)

by Christopher Harlan

  Dacia orders her drink, yelling her order over the pump of the bass that fills the air, and I notice that she’s giving my boy the eye. Dacia is sexy as hell, and wild to match, and where I’d keep my attraction for the hot barista contained to high school fantasies in my always dirty mind, she has no issue shoving her tits right in his face and asking him what his favorite porn website is. I see Goth boy notice her right away, which is no surprise, and he does his best to keep cool and shoot her a grin. He gives her that weird head nod that all guys give when they’re trying to look like they don’t give a shit about talking to you, but in their minds they’re actually doing a little happy dance. She leans in and introduces herself. Good luck with her, kid, she’s a handful.

  I know she came here to consume enough espresso to kill a small horse, but all I want is just a cup of regular black coffee. It takes a few attempts to reroute the barista’s attention off of Dacia’s chest, but when I call him for the third time he pulls himself away and takes my order. When I say “regular coffee” I get the judgmental, what the hell are you doing in here, you old lady, Dunkin Donuts is down the street, look from my Goth friend, but I ignore his bratty expression and turn my back to the bar. There are so many people in here that it’s hard to even see through the crowd.

  “Seriously, D, why? Why here?” I yell, interrupting her from her flirting.

  Dacia shrugs her shoulders up in that universal I don’t know motion—like a stoned kid in math class being asked for the square root of 127.

  “I don’t know, it’s fun, you know?” Fun is actually the last word that came to my mind. This whole place made me painfully aware of my age, which was creeping towards thirty with each passing breath. Damn, I’m getting old. “Makes me feel young,” she says. I laugh at the irony. I mean, we are young, relatively speaking, but not the same kind of young as the skinny senior girls standing next to us, whining about their boyfriends and wearing the clothes that their parents most likely bought for them if they promised to be home before curfew. That kind of young had passed us by a long time ago; now it wasn’t long before we’d be the old ladies at the club. Wait, are we the old ladies now? Oh Jesus, where’s my coffee, Goth-boy?

  “I don’t think I would have liked this place in high school. Not my thing.”

  “Probably not,” Dacia says back, “but then again, you never really had a thing, did you?” She was right about that. “But here’s an idea, blond Mia, just unclench and try to enjoy yourself. Crazy, I know, but maybe give it a shot.” Dacia didn’t realize that enjoying myself in a place like this was easier said than done, but she’s right, I can at least give it a fair chance.

  “Well, D, who knows? Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll find Mr. Right in here—maybe the captain of the football team just broke up with his girlfriend and is trolling for MILFS—minus the M.”

  “Oh screw you, Mia. And I’m looking for an older guy, anyhow—like around the barista’s age or so.”

  “You’d have to buy his drinks for him if you took him out, you realize that, right?”

  “Out? Who’s going out? I have guys our age to go out with. An eighteen-year-old with no money and a hot body is only good for staying in.”

  “You think he’s even eighteen?”

  “I’d give it around an eighty-five percent chance—maybe ninety percent, it’s dark in here so it’s hard to tell.”

  “Oh good, so only like a ten to fifteen percent chance you’d get arrested for statutory rape. He’s hot though, I’d probably take those odds too,” I joke. “After all, I can always bail you out if his mom busts into his bedroom in the morning and calls the cops cause an old lady is molesting her son.”

  “Well hopefully it’s his dad who walks in instead of his mom. Dads like me, plus he wouldn’t call the cops, trust me. If he was hot maybe he can join in.”

  “Jesus, Dacia, you’re a freak.”

  “Kidding, kidding . . . sort of, he might have a hot dad, who knows, his looks have to come from somewhere, right? I think I need to say a few more words to our eyeliner-wearing friend, will you excuse me, blond Mia?” And there she goes, off to make another bad decision when it comes to guys. I learned a long time ago not to lecture her or act like her mom, just to be a good friend and pick up the pieces when she needed me to.

  It’s hard to see in here but it’s even harder to hear. I can literally feel the beat underneath my feet, like the floor itself is dancing beneath me. The music is so loud! But my ears perk up when I notice a voice next to me that’s so deep that it seems to cut through all the noise. “Large coffee, black.” I hear the baritone of his voice as he orders, and it’s so attention-grabbing that I have to turn and look over.

  There he is; the mysterious, black-coffee-drinking man, hiding in plain sight right at the bar. Oh, wow. Even sitting on a stool in dim lighting he’s a striking figure. He’s obviously tall, and he’s wearing a closely fit, dark gray hoodie with the hood pulled down against the back of his neck. His dark hair is cropped close to his head, and his posture tells me that he gives no fucks whatsoever what anyone in that room thinks of him. Maybe this night won’t be so bad after all. I’m not usually bold when it comes to talking to guys, but I can’t take my eyes off of him. He’s gorgeous, even from the side; I can’t just turn back around without saying something. I decide to go for it. “You, too, huh,” I practically yell at him. Oh God, that was random and awkward, he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, does he?

  He must have heard me because he turns and faces me, and I can see his features even more clearly, and they don’t disappoint at all. His eyes are a deep blue, and they sit perfectly on his chiseled face, framed by eyebrows that form dark brown arches. His cheekbones are high, and his jawline is rugged and sharply defined, giving him an unmistakably strong, masculine look. He’s clean shaven, with smooth, perfect skin. When he looks at me I’m struck by how hot he is . . . so hot. He exudes a quiet confidence that just seems to come off of him as he’s sitting there, looking sexy as hell.

  His age is hard to figure out just by looking at him. His body language and energy feel mature, even distinguished, but he has an unmistakably young face. Sitting there, he has no obvious expression on his face, but he still gives off an aloof vibe. When I look at him I have an immediate and unmistakable warmth between my legs, and all I want to do is attack him right there at the bar. I’ve never felt so immediately attracted to a man before, especially without him speaking a word to me, but I literally want to jump on him.

  “The coffee, I mean. Black. Regular.” I feel like this is becoming super awkward, probably because I’m using single words with way too long of a pause in between them, and he hasn’t actually said anything to me yet. But when he looks directly in my eyes, never glancing up or down from my gaze, it’s so intense that I can’t look away. All the unfamiliar, loud music fades away into muffled background noise, and through the bad lighting there’s only him . . . and only those eyes. He stares back at me, his expression shifting from intense to slightly confused, his brow furrowed in a way that says, what the hell are you saying, you strange woman?

  Finally he extends his hand in my direction. “I’m Wesley,” he says in that deep voice. “And yes, black. Regular.” He smiles again, “Personally I hate pretentious coffee drinks, and pretentious coffee drinkers even more.” I already like him, and I love that he doesn’t belong here either—we can be outcasts together, enjoying our boring drinks and being grown-ups. “If you ever catch me drinking anything called a ‘macchiato’ or ‘doppio’ just shoot me right in the head.”

  “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, Wesley, but you don’t seem like this is your kind of place.”

  “Oh no?” he asks. “Why’s that?”

  “No, I mean that in a good way.” I try to clarify because I don’t want to seem like I’m insulting him. “It’s not my kind of place either. You’re probably the only guy here not taking selfies and trying to decide which Snapchat filter best fits your personality.” I get
him to laugh, and when he does he’s even more handsome.

  “I see,” he says kind of sarcastically. “So you think I’m old. I get it. I’m the old guy at the bar drinking black coffee and not taking selfies.”

  “In this crowd I think being old might be a good thing. I left this phase of life a long time ago and it sucked back then, too. I feel like an old hag in this place.”

  “You don’t look like an old hag, trust me.”

  “Wesley, that’s about the best negative compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

  “A what?” he asks.

  “A negative compliment,” I repeat. “When you compliment me by saying what I’m not. Like if I told you that you weren’t a serial killer, then that would be a negative compliment. Get it?”

  “I’m pretty sure you just made that up,” he tells me, still smiling.

  “It’s a thing. You just did it.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s not a bad thing, I’m practically swooning,” I say sarcastically. “I’m not a hag.”

  “Okay, I get it,” he says. “So if that’s what we’re not, then what are we?”

  “Awkward so far,” I answer. “But we’re getting better by the syllable, so don’t worry. Who knows, maybe by the end of the conversation you might even compliment me in the affirmative.” I’ll let that one hang in the air, I don’t want to seem like I’m fishing for compliments. All around us I can see the glow of cell phones held by seventeen-year-olds, the light of their social media pages reflecting into their over-caffeinated little eyes. This wasn’t the place to order black coffee and meet a nice guy, but here we were nonetheless.

  “So, you got a last name, Wesley, or is it like a Madonna kind of thing—like, first name only?” I get him to crack a smile. When he smiles I feel an unmistakable warmth in my whole body, an ache to be closer to him.

  “Marsden. Wesley Marsden.” Marsden? Where do I know that name from? It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it. Probably sounds like someone I went to school with or something, I’m so bad with names. But I won’t be forgetting this one anytime soon, believe me. Wesley Marsden. The dark man with the deep blue eyes.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “Your name sounds very . . . aristocratic. Tell me, Wesley Marsden, are you the only son of an oil tycoon, or the adopted American son of a rich Saudi Prince?” I get a loud belly laugh for that one. I’ve always been able to make people laugh to lighten the mood of any situation, and now I just made Wesley Marsden, laugh hysterically.

  “I’ve gotta say, that’s the first time I’ve ever gotten that one,” he says, still smiling. “Just Wesley will be fine, but I do appreciate the reach of your imagination. I wish my fantasies were as detailed as yours.” Oh, you have no idea just how detailed my fantasies really are, Wesley Marsden. No idea at all.

  “So, it’s Wesley, like The Princess Bride?” I immediately regret saying that. My mouth and dull wit have gotten ahead of my ability to think. He’s probably gotten that line his entire life. I should know better, my name wasn’t immune to stupid pop culture references either. For me it’s usually Mia Wallace, Uma Thurman’s cocaine-loving character from Pulp Fiction, the one who does that dance with John Travolta then OD’s. Before Wesley can respond with whatever he’s used to saying in this situation, I jump in and say, “Sorry, that was dumb, you must get that a lot, huh?” He looks back at me, appreciating my swift apology.

  “Yeah, once or twice.” I can hear the contemptuous sarcasm in his voice and I feel terrible. Not only am I blowing this whole conversation, but I said maybe the worst possible line in the process. “But when you say it I don’t mind so much.” I’m shocked when he says this because he all but rolled his eyes a minute ago. “Let’s just not make a habit out of it, okay?” he says smiling.

  “Deal,” I say, nodding and smiling back, but still feeling embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I say apologetically, and then add, “I’m just not so great at starting conversations.”

  “You’re much better at it than I am, trust me. I’m not good at things like this.” He laughs at his own comment, but not in an I’m hilarious kind of way, but more to let me know that he really felt he wasn’t good at talking to women. I can’t believe that’s true; I mean, look at him! And he’s doing just fine; I’m the awkward one.

  Even sitting down it’s clear that he’s tall, but not the type of tall that makes me feel like a little girl. Some of my friends are into that—they wouldn’t give anyone under six two the time of day—but height had a point of diminishing returns for me, and Wesley seems to be the perfect height. To me it was a ratio thing, not a certain number. He didn’t need to be NBA first round draft-pick tall, but he had to be a certain amount taller than I was.

  In the middle of undressing him with my eyes I realize that I haven’t introduced myself yet, but he calls me out before I even have the chance. “So are you intentionally not telling me your name?” he asks. Damn, I’m so rude. “Just doesn’t seem fair to me. I mean, you’ve known mine for a good two minutes now. I can’t give you that affirmative compliment unless I know your name.”

  “Mia,” I blurt out a little too loudly. My voice isn’t as commanding as his, at least not enough to cut through all the noise, so he leans his beautiful face close into my own, putting his left ear just below my mouth. My first impulse is to bite it, to nibble a little before moving my mouth to other parts of his body, but I guess an introduction is more appropriate. There will always be time for that later, if he likes. “I’m Mia, blond Mia.” That sounds so stupid when I say it out loud that I’m pissed at Dacia for putting it in my head before. It would sound even stupider to try and explain the story to him: see, Wesley, there were a bunch of other girls with the same name as me in the second grade . . .

  “I can see that,” he says with a grin, forgiving the obvious nature of my comment and not making me feel bad. “Nice to meet you, Mia,” he says, smiling. “Your name is beautiful.” I’ve never liked my name, but he likes my name, and at that moment I like it too. I notice that he looks right at me when he speaks—something so simple yet so rare. It speaks of confidence, and I’m immediately attracted to that. He isn’t cocky or arrogant—I can smell that a mile away—he just seems incredibly comfortable with who he is. I envy him that. In fact, I’d give anything to feel that.

  “So,” he asks gently, “why come to the land of lattes and oolong-drinking kids just to order a black coffee?” He asks a valid question.

  “Did you say oolong?” I laugh.

  “I sure did,” he says “It’s a type of tea.”

  “What was that you were saying before about being pretentious?” I ask. “Who the hell says oolong?” I laugh at him, but it’s a comfortable laugh.

  “Touché,” he says. “But regardless, you didn’t answer me.”

  “What brings me to the land of excessive caffeine consumption?” I ask, reiterating his question. “I have two things to say about that,” I say, using my best teacher voice. “First, there’s no such thing as being overly-caffeinated in my world, that’s a total myth. If you’re not shaking then it’s not working. And second, I can ask you the exact same question, can’t I?” He looks at me intensely again, and even with a sternness of expression, I notice how kind his eyes are. You can’t hide that, no matter how tough you try to look. The eyes give us away; the true us; the us we try to keep from the world.

  “What world is that, Mia,” he asks. He does a great job of avoiding my question, but I think it’s because he genuinely is trying to get to know me.

  “Oh, teaching,” I explain, “I’m a teacher.” His face lights up after I tell him what I do for a living.

  “Really? he asks, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Tell me more. What do you teach?”

  “Elementary education. Special needs. Mostly low-functioning students.” I realize that I’m actually looking away when I tell him about my job, and that I sound weirdly robotic. I’m not embarrassed by what I do, quite the opposite actually. I’
m proud of what I do and the amazing kids that I get to work with, it’s just that I’m not used to guys being interested in any of it.

  “Mia, that’s incredible, do you know that?” he says with surprising passion in his voice. No guy has ever been impressed with my job, they usually just give me the polite, “Oh, okay,” when I tell them what I do—if it even gets that far. “Like kids with autism?”

  “Yeah,” I say. It’s amazing how prevalent autism has become. I remember having to explain what it was to people when I first started my job years ago, and now this mysterious, handsome man is asking me about it at a coffee bar. “I have the lowest functioning kids in the entire school. They put us in a different part of the building so we don’t disturb any of the other classes.”

  “That’s idiotic,” he says a little angrily. “They shouldn’t segregate you like that, it’s better for the kids to learn how to socialize.”

  “I agree,” I say, “Maybe you should be in charge of my school.”

  “I’ll get right on that, Mia.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation, and it’s cool how much he knows about my job. It’s a cliché, I know, but it really seems to be a choice between brains and beauty sometimes, and he seems to have both in spades. I’m so amazed by what he’s saying that I retreat back into my awkward silence again. He waits patiently, like he’s already used to my little mental hiccups. “Are you okay?” he asks, “Is that coffee not doing it’s job?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m a little nervous.”

  “I have two things to say about that,” he says, making fun of what I said before with a bratty smile on his face, the type that says my turn. “First, I think it’s amazing that you do what you do, your kids are lucky to have someone who clearly cares so much about them. I can really tell what it means to you.”