Chapter 2

2

L IZ

Moments later

I erased the last sentence twenty-five times.

Twenty. Five. Times.

Unbelievable.

Ugh.

What a way to waste my day.

I would slam my head against the table in despair if I were alone in the coffee shop.

Sadly, I'm not.

I down the last drop of whipped coffee and give the manuscript a poisonous look.

I would kill for some inspiration. It could be anything. A scrape of life. A glimpse into someone's existence. A love song. An imaginary tale.

Anything.

Just give me a kernel of hope.

I just want to let it all loose. Let my fingers do the writing, and my creativity wander and come up with things my real life is clearly lacking.

I've written in a stream of consciousness before, and although it didn't quite fit the story and ended up being mercilessly edited, the words pouring out of me made sense, which isn't the case now.

Stuck, I stare at the view outside.

Despite struggling with this, I can't not notice what a beautiful day it is.

The leaves steal the show with vivid colors and delicate moves in the gentle breeze.

Maybe this whole writing thing isn't for me.

Maybe I'm just lost in the maze of my ever-changing life, and trying to force myself onto this path is simply unkind.

The male lead I'm struggling with is partly inspired by the men I've been with.The problem is, they weren't book material.

And I'll leave it to that.

My attention hardly peels away from the trees when a Bentley snags the corner of my eye as it slowly rolls to a stop in front of the coffee shop.

Still consumed with the drama in my life, I miss the moment when the driver opens the door, straightens out of his seat, and rounds the car before halting next to the passenger-side back door.

A ray of light flickers across the window as it smoothly rolls down, and my attention finally shifts.

It's rare to spot a Bentley here, not because the area lacks well–off people or the coffee house is not perfect for enjoying a hot drink, but because they usually indulge in their drinks in serene surroundings with people wearing starched uniforms when serving them.

This could be a visitor.

Someone new to town.

Some visitor he is, moving around in a chauffeured black Bentley.

"A medium iced Americano," a voice filters out of the luxury car.

The voice is smooth and flavorful like whiskey, seasoned with a husky tone, yet I can't stop myself from thinking it must belong to some entitled dick.

How hard can it be to get his butt out of that comfy seat and get his own coffee instead of asking his chauffeur to do it for him?

I stare at the man listening to his boss' instructions.

He doesn't flinch, onlyflicks his chin down before turning around and making a beeline for the entrance.

The doors slide open, and I get a better glimpse of the car while the window promptly moves up.

What did I expect?

And isn't Americano just black coffee?

A few moments pass before the driver reaches the counter. The girl greets him, and he places the order, making sure the barista follows his boss' exact instructions.

Apparently, Americano isn't just black coffee.

Luckily, she is more knowledgeable than I am.It's espresso with hot water–-well, iced water in his case.

Surreptitiously shaking my head, I move my focus back to my laptop.

If I had almost no inspiration before, now I have even less. If that's even possible. This privileged, suit–clad man was exactly what I needed to completely lose my focus.

I look down but can't stop thinking about him, imagining him fiddling with his phone while waiting for his coffee… And that's if he is alone and doesn't have some company.

He's maybe running his fingers through his hair, smiling to himself, impressed with how good he has it while waiting for another grown up man to bring him his coffee.

The swirl of thoughts takes me to a dark place, so I close my laptop and try not to think about the stranger.

Writing a good male lead is like writing science fiction for me these days.

Maybe I should switch genres and write that.

The car door getting slammed makes me move my eyes back to the view that's killed the last shred of inspiration and my will to work on my book.

The chauffeur is still at the counter, waiting for his boss' coffee.

In the meantime, his employer has stepped out.

His back is turned to the wall of glass, his phone clutched in his hand and pressed to his ear.

His other hand is tucked in his pocket.

I was right, wasn't I? About the phone?

I study him with increased interest. Despite having a pang of animosity toward him, a few things make me pay attention.

His suit is divine.

The fabric falls smoothly over the planes of his body, having no problem highlighting his broad shoulders and muscular frame.

He's taller than average, and he has that confidence about him I only saw in James Sexton, Ed Preston, and Lex Harrington.

He looks familiar in some weird way. Because he looks like them.

Or he reminds me of them.

Hmm.

See… That's precisely why I don't want to go to Thea's wedding.

As much as I love her, am happy for her, and don't want a man like hers––not because he is not handsome, wealthy, and in love with her––but to me… Uh… This whole thing reminds me that my life will never look like hers.

I don't even know where my life is headed.What can be more confusing than this?

I'm sitting in a coffee shop, trying to write something that doesn't want to be written while being critical about someone I haven't even met.

Why does he look so familiar?

I must have seen him around town, and I can bet my money he knows or knows of James Sexton.

This area is a magnet for this type of man.

He flicks his gaze to the side, and the bright sunlight shining over his handsome features makes me gasp when I notice his arresting eyes.

The sky boldly reflects in them. Clear, mystifying blue that could easily shackle your soul.

Who is this man? And why does my heart race, apparently knowing more than I do?

My pulse is frantic.

I don't know who he is, yet I already have mixed feelings about him.I only know I'm obsessed with him and could watch him talk on his phone forever.

I'm even checking on his driver, who is making small talk with the barista.

Hopefully, he'll spend more time inside while the espresso machine drips steamy drops of goodness into the porcelain cup.

My focus goes back to the man outside.

Dark chestnut brown hair sets off his dreamy eyes, and a cute dimple pops up above his upper lip when he flashes a smile.

My eyes linger on his chiseled jawline while hard–to–catch words roll off his lips. I begin to think his playful grin might have to do with a woman.

Still talking, he slightly shifts and flicks his gaze over his shoulder. Perhaps he's checking the store or if the driver is doing his job.

He doesn't seem concerned with much as he continues his conversation. My eyes rove over the starched collar of his dress shirt and the silky fabric of his sky-blue tie.

His suit is tailored, modern, and sexy. It is made of expensive fabric in a dark shade of blue gray.

His tie highlights his white shirt, kissable lips, and five o'clock shadow.

He wears the stubble as an accessory, nothing hinting at a lack of time to rest and groom himself to perfection.

These men are born like this.

To my dismay, the driver picks up his boss' drink and says goodbye to the girl serving behind the counter.

I watch him grab his boss' coffee and head back.

He hands the cold drink to his boss and, without waiting for further instructions, walks to the other side, opens the door, and claims his seat behind the steering wheel.

It feels almost ritualistic. He knows his boss well.

No questions are asked, no gaffes are made, and no stumbling occurs while the fascinating man I'm watching removes the lid of the cup and takes a sip.

He must've asked his chauffeur not to bring a straw.Not a straw guy, huh?

I rest my elbows on the table, lace my fingers together, and tuck them beneath my chin.

And here I am, watching this stranger drinking his iced Americano and most likely chatting up some woman on his phone as if I have nothing better to do.

He is facing the store now, and luckily, he can't see me––I don't think so––as the windows are slightly tinted.

I take even more pleasure in observing him.

I thought I had mixed feelings about him, but I evidently underestimated how fascinated I'd be with someone like him.

He is a sex god––I'll give him that––but that cold undercurrent in his gaze is what worries me more.

He may talk to a woman––he most likely does––but he has no skin in the game—in her case or anyone else's, for that matter.

As sexy and confident as he is, nothing promising sparkles in those striking eyes. I only spot enduring ice.

Even when he plays that game with her, his eyes have no warmth. No emotion.

This man has locked his soul away.

The thought gives me pause.

Most women wouldn't mind rolling between the sheets with him. A secret rendezvous in a hotel room maybe?

Yeah.

They'd probably say yes.

And that's the problem. There's nothing more to him than that.

Who in their right mind would want the heartbreak that comes with him after sampling the aloofness behind his charming eyes?

I wonder how many women have even noticed it.

It's almost impossible to spot it behind his killer smile, a cocked eyebrow, and magnetic gaze.

Enough of him.

I rip my stare away from him and jerk my laptop open.

I will write an… email . Anything is better than gaping at this man.

As I'm trying to do that to forget about the man, he flicks his gaze in my direction.

Wait… What? He can see me… now?

Oh… No. Please, no.

Has he seen me stare at him with my mouth open, toying with the idea of making him the star of my next book?

Ahem… My first book.

No way.

Eww.

I practically drooled over him.

That is so, so stupid.

Trying not to draw more unnecessary attention to myself, I slowly shift my head and check my reflection in the wall mirror.

I look, um… casual.

Dark red hair, brown eyes, not an ounce of makeup.

My skin looks good, but my appearance is rather mousy, nothing to ignite the imagination of the stallion drinking iced coffee outside.

I've paired my favorite, comfiest gray sweatpants with a skintight white tank top almost entirely concealed by a baggy, off-the-shoulder black sweater. Flip-flops complete my look despite the pleasant but crisp air outside.

My hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and a few long bangs brush the side of my cheeks.

Nothing to see here, Mr. Fancy Suit.

It was probably a coincidence.

He couldn't see me. There was no way.

He must've moved his eyes around the store without focusing on anything in particular.

Yet when I bring my eyes back, curious to see if he has left, I find him frozen in place, an arm folded across his chest, his phone pressed to his ear.

He's not talking or enjoying his coffee––his drink sits on top of his ride––but rather listening to whoever is talking to him.

And he's keeping his eyes on me.

On me??

Haha.

That's ludicrous. I'm just being ridiculous.

To get him to turn his stare away from me, I close my laptop and push up, no longer looking at him.

I move a tense hand around my empty pocket and bite back some bad words.

Shit.

I left my wallet in the car. And my car is in the parking lot.

And to get there, I'd need to stroll past that man.

And it would look like I was doing it on purpose.

It would give him so much satisfaction after he caught me staring at him like it was going out of fashion.

And for what? Practically, nothing.

Stubbornly I search again. I know for sure I had a ten dollar bill in my pocket.

Why?

Why did I leave my wallet outside?

Because it's usually empty, and I don't even carry my driver's license with me, which I should.

All I have on me is a credit card with a low credit limit––I'm a student, mind you––and nothing else.

The wallet makes my sweatpants look bulky, and that's precisely why I usually walk into the coffee shop only with some cash, my laptop and my phone.

I try the other pocket and find some change I got when I bought my fancy whipped coffee.

Lucky me.

I'll just steadily move to the counter. Put one foot in front of the other.

Don't look.

Don't look.

This is better than prancing in front of that man outside.Since I have no interest in him, why would I look like I was interested?

Right?

Makes no sense.

"What can I get you?" the girl at the counter asks, smiling softly.

"A bottle of water."

"Ice cold?"

"Yes, please."

"That's it?"

She reaches inside the cooler, picks up my drink, and slides the water bottle across the counter while I give her the cash.

"Yes."

My eyes go to the cookie jar while I'm doing a quick calculation in my head.

"You want one? It's on the house," the barista says while my cheeks get warm with embarrassment.

My longing eyes must've given me away.

It's terrible that I salivate over some cranberry chocolate cookie as if a bite of that crumbling deliciousness could fix my life.

"I'll pay for a dozen cookies for her if you replace my coffee first," a firm, masculine voice articulates behind me.

I flick my head to the side unnecessarily as the man sliding his iced Americano on the counter overwhelms my senses with his scent.

He smells like coffee, aftershave, ice––my favorite––and unbearable risk.

The arrogance in him.

I don't need his cookies.

The woman behind the counter blushes just like me only for a different reason.

Sincere apologies peel off her lips.

"Is there a problem with your coffee, sir?"

The way she calls him ‘sir' makes me think of high thread count sheets, a massive bed, a dim room, and him shirtless with a whip.

The pleasurable variety.

"There's sugar in it."

His voice is clipped, his eyes not once diving in my direction.

He didn't mean it––buying me cookies. He just wanted to make a statement about how bad he had it.

Asshole.

"No one put sugar in your drink, sir," the woman says, disheartened.

"Let me call you back," he mutters before ending his phone conversation and holding her gaze for a moment, his silence more telling than anything he's said before.

Without a word, she collects his ruined drink and walks away, ensuring that she gets it right this time.

No errors are allowed.

Draped in silence, he watches her doing her job.

I'm convinced there was no sugar in his coffee.

Besides, he didn't seem that upset outside.He even had a couple of sips.

Plus, I know this place. It serves some of the best coffee in town. It has good employees. They wouldn't mess with his drink.

He just needed a pretext to walk in.

"Maybe coffee is not the best choice for you. One of those calming teas might do it for you," I find myself talking. "Chamomile, for instance."

He doesn't react to my comment, yet he must know I'm staring at him.

Clearly looking for trouble.

No reasonable person would approach this man right now. He no longer smiles. And whoever was on the phone with him didn't do much for his mood.

Maybe he's one of those characters who go off on whoever happens to be nearby when things don't go their way.

Insufferable, bossy man.

He doesn't even dignify me with a glance, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

His response couldn't be clearer.

And since I have nothing to lose…

"I don't need your cookies."

My blunt comment makes the corners of his lips twitch with a suppressed smile.

"You couldn't have possibly believed me," he says, not looking at me, preoccupied with how his espresso trickles into the porcelain cup.

"I actually could. You look like a gentleman."

His eyes come to me, barely warm from the smile tugging at his lips.

"I only look like one?" he murmurs, his gaze dipping to... um… nothing .

There's nothing there for him to see.

These are my workout sweatpants.

They are not even some of the nicer ones.They don't have a rhinestone embellishment or a cute cat or a dog embroidered on them.

They're bland, comfortable, and go well with my flip-flops.

Our eyes meet.

Wait.

Now they meet??

"Mm-hmm," I say, unintimidated, studying his face.

He bites his lip, but I refuse to get distracted.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" I ask, my eyes still on his face.

His stubble doesn't take away from his beautiful lips.

Again, he gives off mixed signals.

He looks like someone you'd want to play with for a while if you didn't mind the heartache.

But thinking that you might have a chance to mean something for him in the long run is asking for trouble.

He seems arrogant, although he doesn't feel as prickly as he looks.

He also seems aloof, but that may be also misleading.

There is something else about him. Something hidden behind his sexy eyes.

I'd love to say it's something dark, but it's mostly a riddle. A secret. Like a locked gate.

"Where could you possibly know me from?" he says evenly when the barista comes back with his drink.

Sadly, our conversation quickly draws to an end, and my answer becomes unnecessary.

He reaches inside his pocket, retrieves some cash, and drops it on the counter.

"Pack her cookies nicely," he says, flicking his chin to the cookie jar before collecting his coffee, turning around, and walking out without gracing me with another look.

He signals his driver to stay put while he opens the door and slides in, his moves reminding me of a smooth, feral, and lethal wild creature.

The sound of the cellophane brushing against baked goods makes me turn my eyes to the barista.

"Do you know this man?" I ask while she slides thin cranberry chocolate cookies into a cellophane bag.

She ties a red ribbon around the gift bag's top and hands me the wrapped cookies.

"That's David Moore," she murmurs, looking at the man outside.

When I glance in that direction, the Bentley is on the move, gliding away.

"David Moore…" I murmur.

Even his name sounds familiar, and I get that giddy feeling mixed with apprehension that I might know and hate the answer.

"He's James Sexton's business partner," she says.

"Oh… David Moore…" I murmur, my mouth not wanting to pull shut. "That David Moore?"

She smiles.

"Yes."

I have a hard time remembering whether I met him at Rain's place. I don't think so. I was there once when Thea came back from Turkey. I, um… think?

Oh, shit.

I'd clamp my hand over my mouth if I could, but I don't want to look suspicious.

"Thank you," I say, collecting the change, water bottle, and cookies before returning to my table.

Without glancing at my laptop, I call my mother.

"Everything all right?" she pushes out, noticeably worried.

"Yeah… Yeah. I'm sorry."

That's what happens when you unexpectedly break a routine. You get people worried.

"I have a question for you," I say.

"Oh. All right."

She sighs, relieved.

"I hope it's about the wedding," she murmurs, her mood changing.

"Not exactly."

"Liz??"

"Leave me alone. I'm considering it."

"Okay, okay…" she says, distrustful.

I shake my head.

"Listen… You know everything about everyone in this town."

"Most of the time, yes. But everybody does," she says in her defense and in a slightly better mood.

"The man Rain Sexton was with… In that book. You know what book I'm talking about."

"Owned by L. Cater?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

"He lives in town?"

"Yes. He moved here. Sort of… I don't know if he lives here permanently. He's running a part of the Sexton's empire."

"David Moore."

"Yes. Why?"

"You know him?"

A moment passes.

"As in… Am I having a slice of pizza and a beer with him every Friday? No."

I smile.

"You know what I mean…"

"I know what you mean. I saw his pictures online. He's a looking man. I'm not surprised she fell for him."

"She didn't fall for him. She needed his money."

"Um…" she says, unconvinced.

"Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. I've never seen a more obsessed woman with her man. And I'm talking about James Sexton here."

"I can't deny that, but David Moore played a major role in her life by throwing her a lifeline. She would've never gotten back with James if it wasn't for David. I don't think so. She was too young when she met James."

"And you know that how?"

"I don't. I'm just older and can form an opinion on anything. I can also read between the lines."

"You only read the book."

"Everybody in this town read the book. You read it three times."

"Five. But who's counting?"

"And you didn't grasp that?"

"Maybe I did."

I'm not sure I've grasped anything of that nature.

How could she be with this man and not feel excruciating pain when she said goodbye to him? Regardless of the circumstances?

Something doesn't add up.

David Moore was the lifeline that she needed. He was also a swift way to get back at James. Arguably, she was in a rebound relationship, but who has a rebound relationship with someone like him?

"Maybe you did? Or maybe you didn't?" my mother says, questioning my grasping capabilities.

"I just had an exchange with the man," I say abruptly, and her silence is more than telling.

"Where? At the coffee shop?" she asks incredulously.

"Yes. He was buying coffee and, um… He ordered cookies for me."

"What?"

"Yeah. Long story. I didn't know who he was. The girl at the counter told me his name. I was wondering if you knew more about him. Or had heard stuff about him."

"Did he say something to you?"

The suspicion in her voice is noticeable.

"No. He was obnoxious."

"You just said he'd bought you cookies."

"He cut in line and thought buying me cookies would make him look better."

"Did it?"

"No."

"And yet you're asking me if I know anything about him."

I sigh.

"He looked familiar, although I didn't think I'd seen him before. And he was strange. A little."

"He's not strange. Women swoon over him."

"Women swoon over all of them. Why am I even talking to you about swooning over him? He's not my type. And I'm not his."

She laughs.

"Why are you laughing?"

"You're talking like you don't know how these things work. You have no control over what you like or who likes you. If you were, you wouldn't have wasted your time with those…"

She stops abruptly.

"Say it. Losers."

"Maybe they weren't losers, but they surely weren't time well spent either."

"This is not about them. I was intrigued by him. David Moore. And this is just another reason to reconsider going to Thea's wedding. I don't want to run into him again. He had no idea who I was when he offered me those cookies. And I surely don't want to experience some awkward moments at my cousin's wedding. Truly, Mom… There's no reason for me to go there. I'm not in a good place right now. And I don't need to spend time with them to learn, yet again, that I'm adrift."

"You do you," Terry says, and I can tell from her voice how deeply disappointed she is in me.

And I can't even blame her.

"Okay," she says. "I need to go now. Let me know if you change your mind."

We end the call, and I crash back, my arms crossed over my chest.

Staring out the window, I realize that this is such a nice time of the year to have a wedding. So, why can't I just make myself go?

My mind shifts back to David Moore.

So, this is the man portrayed in her book—the one who paid a good chunk of money to have her body and helped her start her business.

What is it about her?

She had the most attractive men in the county and hadn't even planned for all that.

It just happened.

I've heard stories.

And Mom knows a lot more than she lets out.

Whenever I bring it up, she says it's gossip and none of my business.

Well, it is my business now.

What if a good idea for a book comes out of all this mess?

David Moore.

All the bad feelings I have had link their little clammy hands so they can dance like crazy fairies in my head.

My mood is dark.

He is that man.

I read her book multiple times for a reason, yet I could never even come even close to how he is in reality.

I'm suddenly done with writing any book.Before writing anything, I need to do some reading again and then figure out what I want to do about Thea's wedding.

Without wasting another moment, I stuff my cookies, water, and laptop under my arm and head outside.