by Harlow James
With my eyes still focused on the dog, the next thing I feel is a brick wall in front of me, the crash of my body against what feels like steel, and then my body falls back as the force knocks me flat on my ass to the sand. Air escapes my lungs as I struggle to breathe and understand what the hell just happened. One minute I’m running and the next, I’m lying in the sand with my eyes shut and my lungs fighting for air.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry …” a manly voice breaks through the ringing in my ears, followed by a darkness overtaking my face even though my eyes are still closed. The absence of sunlight on my skin makes me aware he’s hovering over me.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and recognition spikes in my brain. I force myself to peel my eyes open and when I do, I see him.
Wes.
What on earth is he doing here? I’m so confused that all I can do is narrow my eyes at him and try to form words.
“You …” I speak, unconsciously greeting him the same way he did to me the other day. If it weren’t for his voice and lips that I recognized, those damn Aviator glasses he was wearing the other day make everything click while simultaneously making me want to rip them off and stomp on them so I can see his eyes.
The corner of his lips tip up as he fights a smile. “Me?”
“You’re the ‘coffee poor’ guy.”
“I never said I was coffee poor.”
“Yes, but you didn’t refute it.”
He chuckles and then reaches down to brush a few hairs from my face, the gesture too intimate for my liking. My defensive wall rises from the ground just as I try to do the same.
“Easy. Just sit,” he commands.
“I’m fine, but what the hell happened?”
“Well, we literally ran into each other.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re right seeing as how I’m down on the ground and I wasn’t a second ago.”
“Are you always so sarcastic?” he asks playfully.
“Is that a problem?”
With a shake of his head, he reaches out to brush some sand from my cheek now, his touch singing my skin again. “No.”
“Okay …”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little shocked, but alright. You know, you could have warned me.”
“I tried, but your earbuds were in and I guess you didn’t hear me.”
I look on the ground beside me and see my wireless earbuds lying in the sand. The impact must have knocked them out as well.
“I’m sorry. I was …” A moment of embarrassment races through me as I think to explain that I was so enamored with a dog that I didn’t have the common courtesy to get out of his way.
“Look, it’s okay. At least I had slowed down a bit. Believe me, if I had hit you going full speed, you probably wouldn’t be speaking right now.” He stands and then reaches out a hand to help me up. But I’m frozen—because the sight in front of me is enough to knock the wind out of me again, and cause the words to refute his cockiness to pause on the tip of my tongue.
Apparently I’m not the only one who likes to run without a shirt on, and if we hadn’t run into each other because I wasn’t paying attention to where I was running, I most likely would have smashed into his chiseled chest from momentary paralysis of my brain once I saw his body.
My God. If I thought the man looked good in a suit, he’d do society a much bigger favor if he just walked around shirtless all the time. I’m no stranger to seeing nice bodies on the beach every day, but there is something about Wes’s stature that is manly in a come-to-mama kind of way, and a sculpted work of art to be revered simultaneously.
My eyes zero in on his shoulders first, the tan muscles glistening in the sun as I notice his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat. I take in his biceps and forearms with those sexy veins as my eyes travel south and then over to his abs. Ripples of muscle flex as he breathes and watches me, but I’m too mesmerized to care. And the way his shorts are hanging low on his hips triggers me to bite my bottom lip, fighting the urge to pull them down and reveal the rest of him for me to see.
“Are you done?” His raspy voice pulls me back to the present as I find his eyes again and realize that he lifted his glasses up. His smile is mega-watt bright, but it’s his eyes that have rendered me speechless still.
Dark green orbs stare back at me, the color so stark and unique that my heart is smacking against the walls inside of my chest, like a crazy person in a strait jacket trying to escape.
This is not good, Shayla. I repeat. Abort, abort. This man is incredibly too good-looking. And now that you’ve seen his eyes, the entirety of him is just too fucking perfect. There has to be something wrong with him.
Staying true to my defense mechanism, I use humor to bring light to the situation, because the last thing I need for him to think is that I’m a mute in the presence of an incredibly attractive man, that he can manipulate me with his charm and good looks and then break my heart when he sees fit.
“I can keep going if you’d like,” I tease him as I accept his hand and volley forward from the sheer force of his pull. I think he overestimated his strength because I trip on my feet and barrel right into his chest again, my palms landing on his hard pecs.
I swear I can hear my vagina yell, “That’s right. Rub up against him. We approve. Now get him alone and naked.”
“Sorry.” I push myself off of him and start to fix my hair, anything to avoid the fact that my body feels like it’s a thousand degrees right now.
“No problem. Are you okay to start walking?”
“Yeah, I think I’m good.”
“So, I take it you’re not working at the coffee shop today?” he asks as his feet start to move in the direction I was headed and I follow on instinct.
“Nope. Saturday is my one morning off from that place.”
“So you run instead?” His head turns to face me as I watch his eyes dance up and down my body now, the movement leaving goosebumps on my skin even though he’s not even touching me.
“I run almost every day.”
He smirks and then pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes. “I can tell.”
I spin my head away from him to hide my smile from his gaze. The last thing I want is for him to know that he’s affecting me.
We walk in a comfortable silence until I notice my palm tree getting closer and closer.
“Well, this is me.” I wave my hand to the side, gesturing to the palm tree.
“You live in a tree?”
I snort and then cover my mouth to stifle my laughter. “Yes. I live in the palm tree. What the hell kind of question was that?”
He shakes his head and I swear I catch a tinge of embarrassment on his face. “Honestly, I don’t know why I said that.”
“Well, at least you weren’t rambling on about cheese,” I grumble, but he catches my comment.
“I mean, cheese is pretty amazing,” he replies, smiling down at me as my pulse picks up. Is he flirting, or just trying to make me feel better about my random rambling the other day?
“That it is.”
“So, uh… Shayla,” he starts, before pausing to rub his hand over the back of his neck. Mr. Cool and Confident looks borderline nervous. “Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?”
My brows pop up. “Now?”
“Well, yes,” he answers, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “I haven’t had any yet today, and since my run is now officially over, I figured I could buy you a cup as well.”
Holy shit. Is he… is he asking me out?
Why am I vibrating with the idea? Why aren’t I volleying up my next sarcastic reply to shoot him down like I do to all of the other men that take a stab at getting my attention?
Is it because he intrigues me enough to flirt with the idea of what it would be like to share a cup of coffee with him? But won’t entertaining that idea just prove to be a distraction that I don’t need right now?
Despite what my heart and vagina are telling me, I
decide to go with my head, and add in a jab that will drive home my point. “Uh, thanks for the offer, but it’s not like I don’t get my own coffee almost every day.”
I can see his face fall, but he quickly recovers. “Oh. Well, of course. Silly me,” he says with a huff. “The last thing you probably want is to sit in a coffee shop when you spend so much time there any other day.”
“Exactly.” What the hell are you doing, Shayla? A gorgeous man asked you out and you’re turning him down?
“I understand. Well, not to sound cheesy, but it was nice running into you, Shayla.” He reaches out to shake my hand as I grin up at him.
“That was terribly cheesy.” I laugh.
“Yes, but you like cheese, don’t you?” he whispers, leaning in closer to me before lifting his glasses so I can see those gorgeous eyes of his again. And the sear of his gaze locked on mine has me regretting pushing him away.
But I have to. It’s the only way I can maintain my dignity, my independence, my god damn mental stability.
Wes screams heartbreak and intensity that I don’t have time for in my life right now.
“Maybe there is such a thing as too much cheese after all?” I fire back with a lift of my brow.
His laugh strikes a chord in my chest and travels all the way down my spine. “You sure are something, Shayla.”
“I’m a whole lot of everything, Wes.”
“That I can see. Have a nice day,” he says before waving casually and walking off in the other direction, leaving me yearning for him to return as I watch the muscles in his back move with each step.
Fight for me, damn it. Prove me wrong. Tell that insecure woman inside that I shove down every day that not all men are selfish pricks who will use me for what they want before leaving me high and dry.
Like they always left my mom.
Sighing heavily, I turn around and begin the short trek back to my apartment, reeling about my encounter with Wes. I don’t blame him for not fighting. My response to his offer was borderline bitchy and even I can’t blame him for surrendering instantaneously. Chloe isn’t home, so as I walk into the apartment, I realize I’m left to stew on my own for the foreseeable future.
As I nestle into the couch to binge watch a show with a bag of chips, almost an hour passes before I realize that I never pressed play on the episode. I had been staring off into space, daydreaming about the incredibly attractive man that has captured my attention in the past week.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this way about interacting with a guy. I think a part of me has become numb to the attention and conversations because they always seem to end up with the same intent—flirt to get my number, hope that I’ll end up in their bed, and then never hear from them again.
Believe me, the sex happens far less frequently than the attempts, but it has been a long time since I’ve entertained that kind of company. I had a friends-with-benefits situation last year that was perfect, until he met someone and we ended it. But that’s all it was, just sex. No emotions, no butterflies, no nervousness like the cacophony of sensations that Wes has evoked in my body.
And maybe that’s why meeting him has me so frazzled.
I work that night at Loft 24, and Sunday at It’s a Grind before waking up early Monday morning to return to the coffee haven. And I hate that a small part of me is hopeful that I just might get to see Wes again, even though I’m unsure how he’ll react after I turned him down Saturday morning. Regret filled my mind all weekend with that decision, but in true Shayla fashion, I made a hell of an argument as to why I needed to, latching on to my self-preservation.
The morning rush is always insane on Mondays, as if people need an extra dose of caffeine to deal with the start of another week. And as time trickles on, disappointment builds in my gut when I realize that Wes never showed up for his morning drink, even though I know he doesn’t come in every day.
I try to shake it off, even lying to Melissa that I’m just extra tired today, but I know deep down that this is why I don’t get involved emotionally with men. All they do is set you up for disappointment in more ways than one.
Just after ten, a UPS driver walks through the door carrying a large gift basket, walking straight up to the counter, and depositing it safely before addressing me.
“Can I help you?” I ask as he stares down at his hand-held computer they make you sign on these days.
“Yes. I have a delivery for Shayla.”
I’m taken aback, the confusion clearly visible on my face. “Uh, I’m Shayla.”
“Great! Just sign here for me please?” He reaches out and hands me the electronic signature pen as I scribble on his screen. “Alright. Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” I call after him and then drift my gaze down to the basket sitting in front of me. It takes me a minute to register what I’m seeing, but when I do, I break out in hysterics.
“Oh, my God,” I say through a laugh, clutching my stomach while staring down at an assortment of gourmet cheeses stuffed in a red velvet basket, sealed inside cellophane, and pulled tight with a gold ribbon at the top.
“What on earth?” My laughter subsides as I notice a card taped to the plastic with masculine writing on the front.
As I slide my finger under the seal of the envelope, Melissa comes up next to me. “Why is there a basket of cheese on the counter?”
All I can do is grin as I pull the white cardstock stationery out, embossed with a silver border, and begin to read the note.
Shayla,
Since I obviously can’t win you over with coffee, and I only know one other thing you enjoy, please accept this basket of cheese as an apology.
I’m sorry that we ran into each other (literally) on the beach, but I’m not sorry for crossing paths with you again.
You may find this cheesy (pun intended) but I would love to take you out sometime.
Feel free to contact me at the information below.
Sincerely,
Wes
[email protected]
office phone: (805) 430-5569
“A guy sent you a basket of cheese?” Melissa’s question breaks me from the moment of giddiness I’m swimming in. I don’t think I’ve ever received a delivery from a man before, let alone, a gift of cheese.
“Seems like it.”
“In all honesty, I’m just incredibly confused.”
I smile, tucking the card in my apron and then moving the basket to the back of the store in the employee room as Melissa follows me. “To be frank as well, so am I.”
***
When I arrive home later that night, Chloe is at the stove, finishing up dinner.
“Honey, I’m home,” I greet her as I walk through the door holding my basket, but her back is turned so she doesn’t see me.
“How very nineteen-fifties husband of you,” she fires back.
“You know we’re practically married to each other at this point, so it just seems appropriate.”
She turns to face me, clicking off the burner as her eyes take in my basket of cheese and widen on sight. “What the hell is that?”
I untie my apron, smacking it down on the counter, and move further into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cupboard and then filling it with water from the fridge. “That is a gift from a customer.”
She leans in close and then unties the ribbon, rifling through the cheeses with her nose turned up. “I don’t even know what half of this stuff is.”
“Yeah, me neither. But it looks expensive, so it must be good.”
“So a customer sent this to you?” I suck in my lips as my friend raises her eyebrow at me. “What are you not telling me?”
I finally let out a sigh and then fill Chloe in on my run-in with Wes.
“First of all, I’m genuinely hurt that you never told me about him. And second of all, you told this guy that you like cheese and he sent you this?”
I roll my eyes at her. “It was more of a ramble, but apparently he found it funny.”
“And you turned down a date with this guy?”
“Yeah,” I admit with a little more disappointment than I wanted to let on.
“Let me see the card.” She holds her hand out as I walk over to my apron, extract the envelope, and watch her read it. But when her eyes pop back up to mine, they’re wide as saucers.
“This is from Wes Morgan? Wes Morgan is your customer that asked you out and you said no to?”
I eye her suspiciously as I watch her start to hyperventilate. “Yes. Why?”
“Oh my God, Shayla! Have you been living under a rock?”
“Chloe, what the fuck are you talking about?”
She pushes around me and finds her computer on the couch, opening up a web browser and typing in Wes’s name. My mind is reeling as I watch the search results pop up on the screen and slap me in the face with the truth.
Wes Morgan. Thirty-one. Birthdate: 3/22/1989. Heir and CEO of Morgan Enterprises. Net worth: 1.2 Billion dollars.
What the actual fuck?
“Oh, my God! You got asked out by a billionaire!” Chloe jumps up from the couch and starts running around the apartment.
“Holy shit.” I sink down further into the cushions, shocked by this information, but then anger starts to fester in my stomach. “He never told me.”
“Huh?” Chloe freezes long enough to hear me.
“He never said anything.”
“Well, why would he? You just met.”
“I mean, isn’t that kind of dishonest?” I stand from the couch now, pacing on the carpet in front of the television.
“Wait a second. You’re mad?”
I shrug, still fighting with what I’m feeling. “I just don’t understand his end game here. Did he think he’d be able to keep his identity a secret from me?”
“I’m uh… I’m kind of confused. Obviously, you had no idea who he was until I showed you, so why do you get to be mad?”
