“Is that right?”
“If you hadn’t helped me, they’d probably be scraping my body off the pavement right now. So thank you.” She grabs her cup once more, raising it in a toast before sipping her tea.
“I just did what any reasonable human would when seeing a person in need.”
“That’s not entirely true. These days, most people only care about themselves. Look around you.” She gestures at the other tables. I survey the dozen or so patrons seeking shelter from the rain. “They barely take the time to look up from their cell phones, too focused on how many likes they got on their latest Instagram post or story.”
“Then I guess I’m not most people.”
“I guess you’re not.” I extend my hand toward her. “I’m Weston. Or Wes.”
She studies it cautiously, then places hers in mine. “Londyn.”
“Londyn.” My mouth tests how her name rolls off my tongue as I wrap my fingers around her delicate skin. “Like the city?” Custom dictates I should drop my hold on her, but a larger force keeps my hand entwined with hers.
“Yes. But spelled with a y.”
“Well, Londyn with a y, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hold her gaze another moment, my pointer finger caressing the callouses on her palm, which only intrigues me even more. Most women I know wouldn’t be caught dead with so much as a scrape on their hands. But it’s obvious Londyn has no problem getting her hands dirty, so to speak. I’m about to ask about the job she just lost when she abruptly yanks her hand from mine and shoots to her feet.
“I should go.”
“Go?” I stand, my six-two frame towering over her by at least a half foot, making me estimate her to be around five-eight. I glance out the window to see the downpour hasn’t let up at all. “It’s still raining.”
“I’ll be fine.” Reaching into her wallet, she pulls out a five-dollar bill. “Here.” She shoves it at me. “For the tea.”
I wave her off. “That’s not necessary.”
“I prefer not having any debts. I can’t repay you for saving my ass, as it were, but I can repay you for the tea. So here…” She sets the bill on the table. “Take it. Or put it in the tip jar. Better yet, give it to Omar.”
I scrunch my brows, unsure I heard her correctly. “Omar?”
“The homeless guy who’s always hanging out by the exit of the garage. I don’t care what you end up doing with the money. At least it will be off my tab.”
This woman becomes more intriguing with every second. Since I moved back to Atlanta from Boston two years ago, not one person has admitted to knowing the name of the homeless guy I buy coffee and food for whenever I can. He’s the reason I came down to the coffee shop today. To get him something to keep him warm in this rain.
“Let me at least walk you,” I suggest. “Make sure you get to your car safely.”
She shakes her head, retreating from me and toward the front door. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. Luckily, there are no more unruly crosswalks between here and the garage.” She presses her palm against the door, about to push it open.
“Wait!” I call out, my outburst surprising even me.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder, a single brow raised.
“Can I get your phone number?”
The entire shop goes silent, my question seeming to echo.
I have no idea what came over me. This is extremely out of character for me. It’s almost like some other force has taken over, urging me to act in a way I’ve fought for years now.
And for good reason.
“I-I mean…” I flounder, words escaping me now that I have her attention, as well as the attention of everyone else here. “To check on you.” My voice comes out assured. More assured than I feel inside. “I’d feel better if I can at least text to make sure you got home okay.”
Her gaze shifts from me as she chews on her lower lip. It’s just a phone number, but by the indecision filling the lines of her face, you’d think I asked her to pick her favorite Beatle or what three movies she’d take if she were abandoned on a deserted island.
Finally, she nods and reaches into her purse, shifting the contents around before retrieving a business card and handing it to me.
“Londyn Living?” I read.
“I up-cycle furniture,” she explains. “I find pieces that are in really bad shape but still have good bones and give them a second chance at life.”
That would explain the callouses.
“I’m familiar with the process,” I tell her, taking in the website and email, both of which have Londyn’s name displayed prominently on it. “I’m assuming this is not the job you got fired from earlier.”
“No.” She pushes out a nervous laugh. “It’s kind of hard to fire me from my own company.”
“I imagine so.”
We share another look as her lips curve up into a small smile. It’s not forced or fake, as is the case with so many other women I’m surrounded by. It’s natural, refreshing… breathtaking. In a world full of roses, she’s a sunflower, unique and filled with light.
She opens her mouth, as if wanting to say something. Instead, she takes a step back, becoming overtly professional, spine stiff, shoulders straight.
“Thanks again, Weston.” She turns, about to walk out of the shop when I call out to her once more.
“I hope tomorrow is better than today.”
She stops, her hand on the door. She doesn’t look back at me. But she doesn’t run away, either.
“Although, I must confess…,” I continue, my voice low. “In my book, it will be really difficult for tomorrow to be better than today,” I whisper.
“Why’s that?” she squeaks out, glancing over her shoulder, eyes locking with mine.
“Because I met a beautiful woman.” I smirk, hoping I don’t come off as overly cocky or arrogant. “If you ask me, it’s going to be next to impossible to top that.”
She doesn’t move for several moments. Then she pushes open the door and hurries down the sidewalk, ducking into the garage.
Blowing out a breath as I remind myself why it’s not worth it to take a risk on a beautiful woman I meet in a coffee shop, I make my way back to the counter, everyone in the shop pretending to return to their business. I’m about to hand the barista the bill Londyn gave me, then stop myself, pulling out my wallet and using my own money to cover the tea. Heading back to my table, I grab the coffee and danish.
I dash out of the shop, fighting against the wind and rain until I reach the corner where Omar sits huddled under an awning, keeping himself as dry as possible.
“Here you go, buddy.”
With a smile, I hand him the coffee and danish, almost able to hear my mother’s admonition that I’m only encouraging him to keep mooching off hardworking people by giving him food, coffee, and the occasional self-care items. It’s laughable, considering my mother wouldn’t know what a hard day’s work looked like if it smacked her in the face. For a woman who claims to devote all her free time to charity, she doesn’t have a charitable bone in her body, unless the media is covering it. But I’ve learned that the most fulfilling acts of charity are the ones you do out of the goodness of your heart. Not for accolades or commendation. Which is why I don’t mind helping Omar.