Chapter 1
I’m convinced that any compliment I’ve ever been given was somehow done as charity by a family member or a friend. Like they paid someone to do it. So when the handsome stranger with extremely dark hair and brilliant blue eyes tells me that I have a beautiful smile, my first reaction is to almost choke on my donut. Actually, that’s exactly what happens. It went a little something like this:
“You have a lovely smile,” said the man.
I’d just left Sweeties Bakery, which was only a few blocks from my apartment, and the smile he noticed was directed at the powdered sugar donut in my hand—because donuts bring me, and nearly all the world’s population, joy.
I then lifted it to my mouth as he said the fateful words. Which caused me to do a sort of confused snort-laugh where some of the powdered sugar got sucked into my throat along with a piece of the donut. I coughed, trying to dislodge the food from the back of my throat, and was unsuccessful. So I coughed some more, and it got so bad that the handsome stranger even started patting me on the back. This continued to happen. Like a horrible, vicious coughing cycle.
I wasn’t sure if it would happen, but I was finally able to get a hold of myself, which is where I find myself now. Currently standing in front of the handsome stranger, still holding the donut that was nearly my undoing (I wasn’t going to give it up so easily), and looking down at a dusting of powdered sugar that has traveled down the front of my black workout tank and onto the upper thighs of my capri yoga pants.
How freaking stupid.
Not to mention, I’ve just finished working out so my hair is in a ponytail—or at least it was. In my peripheral vision, I can see strands of golden locks that came loose in my coughing fit. I’m sweaty, but luckily I’m not having to suffer under the noon-day Orlando summer heat right now, even though the setting sun offers only a slight reprieve. I’ve lived here since I was thirteen and I still can’t get used to the summer heat.
“You okay?” Stranger Man asks. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a dark V-neck tee that hugs his muscular arms quite nicely.
“I think so?” I say and then cough. Just once. For good measure. Gah.
“Brilliant,” he says, his mouth a grimace. He reaches up and runs a hand through his dark hair. “I feel a bit bad about that.”
Oh, dear heaven above. Handsome Man has an accent. A very British one, in fact. It didn’t register with me before, in my choking state. Be still, my beating ovaries. I’ve always been a sucker for a British accent.
But of course, I’m standing in front of him, hair askew, my face a nice shade of red, if the burning feeling I’m currently experiencing is any indication. Oh, and powdered sugar down the front of me. I’m also still holding on to the donut. I’m a work of art. A Picasso.
“No worries. You just caught me off guard,” I say, holding the donut up, my offering as proof. As if he doesn’t know what I was just having a coughing fit over. Good job, me.
“Sorry about that.”
I look down at my shirt, wondering if I should try to dust it off or if I should just let go and let God. It is what it is. It’s also not like I’ll ever see this man again. Which is sad because he’s quite handsome and despite my disheveled look, he thinks my smile is lovely. I will cherish this moment. Or, a smidgen of this moment.
“Henry,” he says, holding out a hand to shake mine.
“Uh . . .” I close my donut-free hand into a fist to make sure it’s powdered sugar–free, and sure enough, there’s a definite sticky feeling. In my haste to eat the donut I forgot to grab a napkin. Therefore, I do the only thing I can: I wipe my hand on my leggings and then gingerly place it in his. “Quinn.”
He shakes my hand with a grip that’s firm but not overly so. Just the right amount of hold, and my hand feels dainty in his. Which is not a normal feeling for me. My hands are not small. Thomas doesn’t call me “Man Hands” for nothing. They’re also not soft like most girlie hands. They’re calloused and rough. But working with wood and stains and sandpaper will do that to you.
“Nice to meet you, Quinn,” he says, his lips pulling up into a genuine smile, which makes a tingling sensation shoot down the back of my neck. That’s one striking grin.
I feel something . . . a tug or a pull of some sort that makes my mind start taking off at a galloping pace. Visions of a two-story craftsman-style house with gray trim, a blue front door, and a flower garden appear in my mind alongside an image of me pushing a black pram. Handsome Henry walking next to me as we smile at how perfect our lives are.
You’re a complete nutjob, Quinn Pearson.
It’s not hard for me to go from A to Z with this guy, though. It’s like he stepped out of the picture of my perfect dream man—an Adonis—and is now standing here in front of me, British accent and all. In the dream I didn’t envision myself being covered in powdered sugar, though.
This is all foreign to me anyway. I’m not the kind of girl that men just come up and talk to. Unless they’re trying to break into television and they think I have an “in.”
News flash: I don’t.
“Well,” I say, pulling my hand free of his, “it was nice to meet you. Thanks for . . . uh . . . helping me.” I point to my back where he’d patted it just moments ago. Good one, Quinn. Keep bringing him back to the moment. Way to just let it go.
“Yeah, lovely,” he says, giving me a warm smile.
“Okay,” I say, starting to back away from him. “Thanks again for . . . uh . . . that.”
Time to go. I pivot and start walking away. Finding a trash can on the side of the street, I toss the rest of my donut away. Normally it would take something catastrophic for me to relinquish it, but the donut somehow feels tainted now. It was the cause of my embarrassment; therefore, it should suffer the tragedy of not being eaten.
“Wait,” Henry says when I’ve gotten only a few feet away.
I hang my head just a little and close my eyes. Can’t we just call it good? I’d like to go home now and relive this moment over and over in my head like the worst earworm in existence. Because it’s what I do. Even if it’s cringeworthy.
“Yes?” I say as I turn around.
He takes the few steps toward me, again running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “So, well . . .” He lets out what sounds almost like a nervous chuckle. “I feel like I should make it up to you. Can I buy you a coffee or something?”
“A coffee?” I sputter. “In this heat?”
The hand moves from his hair and to the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his face. “Maybe not,” he says. “A Coke?”
“I gave up soda for Lent.”
His eyes crinkle at the side in the most perfect way. “Lent was over in April,” he says, confused.
“Right, I just never went back to it after Lent.”
He grins, his teeth looking perfectly white even as the sun has nearly slipped away.
“Glass of wine?”
“Do I look like I’m dressed for a bar?” I give him a sly smile. Not sure where this boost of confidence is coming from—old Quinn would have probably run away as soon as the coughing fit had ended. Or perhaps during it.
“I feel like I at least owe you a donut. Maybe one with less . . . powder.” He winks, a teasing tone to his voice. He smiles, and a little dimple forms in the right corner of his mouth.