“Let the stripper comment go. Come on.” I tilt my head. “Two people having a meal. That’s all. What could happen?” I grin. “Or is that what you’re afraid of?”
She flushes and looks away. “I can’t stand here all night arguing with you.” She waves the check she still holds. “Thanks.”
“Who’s the coffee date with?”
“Toby.”
My world grinds to a halt at the thought, and I’m suddenly a bull seeing red. She’s ridiculous and careless and naive. “You barely know that guy.”
“It’s coffee.”
“That’s what he says. He thinks he’s going to get a thank you for the lift the other day.”
She narrows her eyes. “Coffee. At a coffee shop. That’s not code for a hookup. And he did fix my tire.”
“I don’t trust him.”
Emerson rolls her eyes. “Get real. Not everyone is trying to get into my pants.”
“Oh, trust me, that guy is.”
“Because he’s buying me a coffee?”
“Because he went out of his way to be your hero the other day. People always have motives. You think he only helped you out of the kindness of his heart?”
“Like you helped me?” She runs her hand through her hair and the sweater moves silkily across her body.
I itch to haul her against me, kiss her until she forgets about meeting Toby the motorcycle boy. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you know me. I don’t have a hidden agenda.”
She reaches for her purse that sits on a corner of the end table. “And you’re not trying to get in my pants, right? I mean...if I offered, you’d turn me down.”
“Of course not.” I’m not sure of what I’ve answered.
Emerson laughs, the sound brittle as crackling dry leaves. “I’m going for my coffee now. I’ll be at the house on Friday, doing my job.”
She’s ending the conversation between us. I want to push and get my way, but she’s as stubborn as I am. The more I push, the further away I am.
Okay. Friday. I’ll bide my time. “See you in a few days then.”
For one split second, I see a flash of disappointment in her eyes, as if she thought I’d argue some more. She walks me to the door and holds it open. “Thanks for bringing the check.”
“Anytime.” I squeeze her shoulder lightly as I walk by and on impulse, lean over and kiss her cheek.
She sucks in a breath and her eyes widen.
I’m glad I caught her off-guard. Glad that maybe I’ve shaken her up a little before this coffee rendezvous. Glad that maybe she’ll be thinking of me when she’s with him. “It’s the least I could do. You’re a sweetheart. I’ll walk you down and put the spare in your trunk.”
Emerson won’t make eye contact with me as she walks through the door I hold open for her.
I like to think I’m a smart competitor when it comes to the things that really matter. Spending time with Emerson has moved up in the rankings of my priority list. It’s time for a game plan.
Chapter Five
Somebody Loves You
Emerson
I suppose heaven is sort of like Cuppa Cuppa Coffeehouse.
Its toe-curling, toasty atmosphere makes me want to stretch out in front of their log fireplace and take a nap. Some kind of jazzy song plays over the speakers in a low hum. Customers sit at tables and drink out of mugs the size of soup bowls.
Cuppa Cuppa is one of my favorite places. People—mostly your brainy, serious types—hang out here, as opposed to the business crowd trying to make connections. I adore that everything here is cozy and real.
My gaze floats around the room searching for Toby’s dark blond dreadlocks. When I don’t see him immediately, I scan the room again.
And then a third time.
My gaze lingers at the table where a broad-shouldered guy sits reading a worn paperback. He fits with this crowd, his flannel shirt looking slightly worn and comfortable, his boot-clad feet crossed at the ankles, his body language telling me he could be at home here or anywhere.
The guy glances up, Caribbean ocean-green eyes zeroing in on me. He gives me a welcoming smile.
Toby. Toby without the dreadlocks. Toby who is quite the looker.
I cross the room in a hurry since I’m already late and feeling guilty that he’s had time to start reading a book. “Sorry I’m late.”
He stands halfway and pulls out the chair next to him at the square table. “I was worried you might’ve changed your mind.”
“No, course not.” I stare at him as I take my seat, not quite believing how different he looks.
“Thanks. Didn’t recognize you when I walked in.” I immediately regret saying it because he looks slightly shy all of a sudden.
“Haircut,” he says, rubbing a hand over the missing locks on the back of his neck.
“It’s really...nice. You look great.”
“It was time. I’ve had the dreads for a while and I have a few job interviews coming soon. People judge, you know?”
“It’s nice. Life is all about recognizing the need for change.” Now I feel like I’ve made a big deal out of it. I nod at the book lying face up on the table. “Catcher in the Rye?”
He bunches his eyebrows. “Not really my kind of book. It was on the table.”
“Ah,” I say with a grin. “Not really my type either.”
He leans in close. “I like the fantasy genre best. You know, George RR Martin and Tolkien.”
“I read fantasy, too. I’ve recently discovered Jack Whyte. His fantasy books blow my mind.”
He leans his head down and looks left to right. “Don’t say that too loudly here though. The table next to us just said something about allegory in Moby Dick,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper.
I laugh under my breath. “Well, I will avoid any book that requires Cliff notes.”
He glances over at the counter. Drink specials are written on a huge blackboard behind the counter staff. “What will you have? I’ll get us something to drink.”
I study the choices and decide on a mocha latte with whipped cream. As Toby walks to the counter, I take a minute to sit back and relax. He turns to glance at me and smiles broadly. It’s a nice smile, genuine and easy. My Benedict Arnold thoughts immediately jump back to the past hour and Dylan’s smile—devilish, like he’s planning some assault on all your defenses.
A girl sits next to Toby at the counter. She examines him and he’s oblivious. He never turns his head in her direction.
Finally, the girl says something to him and he answers. Then he immediately turns his entire body to watch the lady behind the counter make coffee.
When he gets back to the table, I accept my drink and shake my head. “You know the girl beside you?”
“What girl?” He blows on his coffee and takes a sip.
“The brunette trying to talk with you. The one who was smiling, flirting, falling off her chair to get closer to you? That girl.”
“Nah,” he says. “She was asking about the best kind of coffee here.”