My stiff shoulders sank further with every breath I took. There was no immediate danger and maybe none at all. I started to smile but narrowed my eyes as I looked up at his face again. I could swear I recognize him from somewhere. Maybe. I dismissed the thought as quickly as it occurred. Was everyone I saw today going to seem familiar? I really needed to take some of my banked vacation days. If I'd ever met this man, I would've remembered.
With a vague awareness of the wet shirt plastered to my chest, I stared at Homeless Guy.
His gaze roamed my face, his eyes assessing, until the weight of all that goodness aimed at me was almost too much. "You all right?"
Sweet Jesus. His voice reverberated, striking bass notes in my belly and my thighs clenched with the sudden need for...more.
"Yeah, I think so." My response was breathy.
I wonder what he looks like underneath all the hair. And clothing. I blushed in reaction to the thought. Please don't let it show on my face. His teeth captured his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Could he read me? The ghost of a smirk transformed his face from dangerous to smolderingly playful in an instant...Yeah, he was on board with whatever dirty thoughts I could conjure.
He looked at my coffee stained blouse and moved a little closer, leaving only inches between me and his luscious lips, now at my eye level. I stifled a whimper at the thought of running my tongue along the seam there, tempting him to take control and press himself against me. My mouth watered as I imagined his scratchy beard abrading my skin as he kissed me with force. Took what was his.
No. I stepped away. What was I thinking? My life was perilously close to dissolving into total chaos and I stood there like an idiot, fantasizing about a stranger. One who looked like he probably lived on the street. I needed to get my head checked. As if confirming I was indeed nuts, every muscle in my body resisted the order from my brain, making my movement away from him jerky and awkward.
The distance between us only appeared to encourage him to focus on the curve of my breasts, outlined by my cold, coffee-soaked blouse. My traitorous nipples beaded against my will, as if competing with each other for his attention. Both came out a winner as his eyes darkened in response.
His scrutiny continued to heat me from the inside out as the energy pulsing between us awakened sensations in my body I didn't know I was capable of feeling. When his gaze returned to my lips, I sucked in a breath, sure I would pass out from the need to feel his mouth against mine. The intensity of my attraction to this man defied logic.
How long had we been eye-fucking each other? A few seconds? Minutes? I only knew I didn't want it to end, though I should. He closed his eyes on a long blink. When he opened them again, his lustful expression was replaced by a wince. Huh? My co-workers, Max and Alicia, broke the spell, spinning me around to face them.
"Are you OK?" Max pressed his lips together as though fighting the urge to laugh.
Ogling a homeless guy. I'd never live that one down.
Alicia's sweetly concerned voice was a salve to my frazzled nerves. "What the hell happened?"
I let loose a sarcastic snort. It wasn't possible to explain the situation without sounding insane. I sighed. The shirt had been a favorite—real silk in a brilliant teal, with a caramel colored poppy print. Gemma, my best friend and roommate, had gotten it for a steal on one of her many boutique shopping trips, claiming the colors complemented my long auburn hair perfectly. Perhaps the stains would come out if I soaked it in the sink in the break room right away.
That reminded me of the man who'd spilled his coffee. He'd tucked something into my purse before he left. I retrieved it from the floor and felt around the side pocket: a one hundred dollar bill.
"Wow, big tipper." Max's whistle echoed around the café.
"It's to cover dry cleaning," I mumbled, as I stared at the money. I'd never gotten a hundred dollar tip before. It was crisp and unwrinkled and oddly disturbing, almost like it wasn't real.
"Screw this blouse, girl. Buy a new one for yourself and a round of shots for us and call it good."
Alicia giggled as she handed me a clean towel. I crumpled the money before shoving it into my pocket. There was something satisfying about being the first person to mar its perfection. I gripped the towel and held it to my chest, suddenly aware of how many people still watched the scene unfold. I couldn't deny how I felt when Homeless Guy was looking, but I wasn't into giving out free floorshows, and every patron at Fuel had already had an eyeful.
I turned around. Whatever had happened, any feelings of attraction toward anyone needed to be shut down in a hurry. So, I should've been relieved when I noticed Homeless Guy was gone. Why did my shoulders sag with disappointment instead?
*******
Ben ran out of that café like it was on fire, his heart racing painfully in his chest. He'd had to leave before he did something crazy, something the old him would've done, like give in to impulse, grab that redheaded beauty, and kiss her senseless. A block away, he stopped and slumped against the brick wall of a furniture store, grateful for the camouflage of his beard as he caught his breath. Jesus, what the hell was that? He looked around, retrieving his baseball cap from his back pocket, and tugging it low over his head.
As people moved past, oblivious to his identity, he rested his head against the damp bricks behind him. The rain had stopped for now, but he almost wished it would return. A cold shower was what he needed to shock some sense into him.
Her image mocked him—her skin flushed, lips parted—and his body responded with urgency. The need to have her was more powerful than any attraction he'd ever known. He winced a little as he tried to adjust himself tactfully, while he pushed away from the wall.
Walking back toward his car, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. He should call Rhys or August. His big brothers had always given it to him straight, though their advice differed as much as their personalities.
Auggie would try to talk some sense into him, tell him to stop going to that damn coffee shop just to see some girl, focus on fixing his mess of a life, and leave the poor thing out of it. Rhys would tell him to go back, schmooze her a bit, get her number, and fuck her out of his system the way he had with every other woman he'd been even remotely drawn to for the last ten years.
Ben shook his head, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He wasn't that guy anymore. The one who used women for their bodies. He didn't have time for a real relationship when he was on tour or in the studio ninety percent of the time, anyway. But, maybe he'd just never found anyone who made him want more, the way the beautiful girl in the coffee shop had.
This could be a dangerous situation. She was different. If she lived up to the promise of all he'd seen, being with her would rock him to the core, and make it hard to walk away. He knew that on a soul-deep level, especially now that he'd looked into her eyes for the first time.
He'd been going to the café since he'd spotted her a few weeks earlier, but up until today she hadn't noticed him, thanks to his beard, trusty baseball cap and hard-earned ability to wall-flower himself when he needed to. Initially, her unique beauty had gotten his attention. Since then, it had become more than her vivid green eyes and thick auburn hair. More than her long legs, which carried her curvy but athletic body across a room. More than the smattering of cute freckles on her cheeks, the sweet little nose piercing with an onyx stud.
Like him, she held a part of herself back. It wasn't something the average person would notice, but Ben had spotted it immediately. A woman like that needed the tender parts of herself protected, cared for. From the ready smile she had for everyone—whether it was some homeless guy down on his luck—or a snotty co-ed from the local college, to her easy going laugh. She was a good person.
When she'd freaked in front of that older dude, shaking like a deer caught in the crosshairs, he couldn't stand by and watch. He already felt territorial about her, though all he knew was her name.
Maggie.
He didn't need to stand so close and
put his hands on her, but he'd done it anyway. Instinct had led him to that spot, his chest to her back, his breath tickling her neck. She had shivered at the energy between them before she'd even turned around.
After that, the suit, the café, and everyone in it, had disappeared as he took in the luscious curves of her body and face. Her shirt had been plastered to her chest, nipples tight and wet underneath. Her breathing had increased, which he so didn't need to see. It hadn't been one-sided.
When his gaze had made it to her lips and they'd parted on an exhale, he almost couldn't control himself any longer. The urge to kiss her, to see if she tasted as good as she looked, had nearly overpowered his common sense.
He couldn't just get her number and use her the way he'd done with other women. Tossing her aside, no, it made him want to punch something. Having her once would lead to needing more, and he couldn't afford to swim in that pool. Never again.
"Mr. Fisher?"
He turned, regretting it immediately, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Dammit! Lying low in this small city for a year couldn't erase the automatic reaction he'd had to the sound of his name for the previous twenty-eight. He'd screwed himself over the minute he'd acknowledged the kid approaching him. When would he learn to act like they'd mistaken him for someone else?
Reining in his irritation, he managed what he hoped was a genuine smile. He didn't have the time or patience for fans this morning, even the ones astute enough to see past the long hair and beard, but fair's fair. If someone was observant, he wouldn't turn them away. But this kid, this all-American blonde surfer boy with a goofball grin, didn't look especially smart. Even less so, when he failed to notice the sag of Ben's shoulders, the way he'd dragged himself to a halt before turning around slowly once he'd been pegged. Further evidence of the guy's obliviousness was the way he grinned at Ben as though they were long lost friends.
Ben sighed and risked a quick glance around. Fine, he'd autograph something for this dude and hope there weren't any passersby who cottoned on to the action and wanted to take a million selfies with him. The last thing he needed was for social media to blow up with his pic and exact location. He wasn't going to hide forever, but he would damn well be the one to decide how and when he re-emerged from his self-induced exile.
The kid was out of breath. Had he been following me? Ben narrowed his eyes as the guy closed the last few feet, drawing to a stop in front of him. He was shorter than Ben's six-foot three-inch frame by a lot. A closer look revealed he wasn't as young as he appeared from a distance. He had the beginnings of laugh lines around his beady blue eyes. His round jaw was dark with a short, scruffy beard, or maybe he'd just neglected to shave for a few days. Either way, he was definitely older than his surfer-boy looks and slouchy jeans made him appear at first glance.
"Dirk Reynolds." He held out his hand. Suspicion made Ben pause, letting the hand hover between them for a moment longer than necessary before he took it. "Voyeur magazine." His grip tightened around the man's fingers, gnashing bone against bone, his glare murderous. Dirk winced before Ben let go and turned to walk away.
"I just have a few questions and then I promise I'll leave you alone." The fuckwad, Dirk, followed him, his steps quick, as he tried to match Ben's long strides.
"Not interested in talking to tabloids." What the fuck kind of name was Dirk anyway? And why did douchebags always have stupid names to match their stupidity?
"Talk or not, Mr. Fisher, we're going to run a story about you. Wouldn't you like the chance to explain to your fans why you walked away from your career when you were at the top of your game?"
"Nope." Typical tactics. Fucking tabloids never gave a shit about the truth, unless it was conveniently dramatic enough to pad their pockets. Voyeur was the worst of its kind. He'd been burned by them enough to know. Let them speculate. Sooner or later they'd move on to some panty-less starlet with a drinking problem, and he'd be free to get his shit together in peace.
He increased his pace, refusing to acknowledge the son of a bitch any longer. Shoes thudding against pavement slowed, then receded, but not before the telltale clicks of a camera phone echoed from behind him. Ben smirked. He'd gotten nothing but Ben's retreating form. "Good luck, asshole," he muttered.
Damn, he'd left that café at the right time. The beauty behind the counter didn't need to get pulled into the reality of his celebrity status. By helping her out this morning, he'd created a perfect memory and it was one, by some miracle, he hadn't fucked up. Judging by the way her eyes narrowed at his face, she'd recognized him. She'd be able to tell her friends she'd met the famous Ben Fisher—that he was a nice guy who'd helped her out. When was the last time a woman had been able to say that about him?
As he struggled to convince himself to leave her alone, he tried to silence the growing doubt in his mind that he would be able to resist going back. His pace slowed. He fought the urge to go back and burst through those doors, make sure she knew she was his, and always would be. Christ, he needed to get his head examined.
He settled behind the wheel of his car and looked around at the polished interior. Every square inch had been restored by his hands. This car. Fuck. The Mustang was a classic, and the only thing he really cared about anymore. It was also conspicuous enough to draw attention to him, but he couldn't bring himself to give her up. Maybe it meant he hadn't truly changed, but when it came to his baby, he wouldn't budge.
After a few deep breaths, he felt marginally back in control. Tossing his hat aside, he ran a hand through hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. He relished the length. Every inch was evidence of how much time had passed, how much distance he'd been able to put between his old life. Before he could stop the flood of memories, it was all there, slamming him in the chest like a heavyweight prizefighter.
Just the possibility that his past could catch up to him and ruin someone else's life, the way he'd ruined Emily's, was enough to leave him cold with dread. As he pulled into traffic, he couldn't help but curse the night he'd met that poor groupie.
That night had started him on this path to hell, with no one to blame but himself. He was beyond saving.
You can find Saving Ben on Amazon. http://bit.ly/2f1Sja4SavingBen
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