Waves? Vines?
Whatever they are, they run up the length of his bare arm, disappearing under the sleeve of his very thin, very fitted white t-shirt.
Without meaning to, I lean in slightly, pressing my hands against the counter as I crane my neck to the side, trying to get a closer look, just at the moment he turns away from the espresso machine. Back toward me.
Like the innocuous, polished wood surface has suddenly burned me, I snatch my hands away from where I’d been leveraging myself against the counter, staggering back to a more than normal distance.
Coppery-green flecked hazel eyes snap wide under dark, thick lashes before one brow crashes low in a confused, curious look that instantly leaves me feeling totally caught out in my exceptionally awkward gawking. The expression only lasts a moment before the barista smooths his face into friendly welcome. As his lowered brow relaxes, I catch a glint of metal and realize it’s pierced by a silver ring.
“Sorry I kept you waiting.” There isn’t a trace of discomfort in his voice about the way he’s just caught me so obviously ogling him, and when he sets down his rag, he keeps eye contact as he steps sideways to rinse his hands at the sinkbefore sauntering over to face me at the counter.
Every one of his movements flows into the next, like a dance. It’s mesmerizing, and, like an absolute fucking weirdo, I can’t peel my eyes away from him.
He’s short, a good six inches shorter than my six feet, and slim. Even so, the way his shirt clings to his body shows off the unmistakable outlines of tight, firm muscle. The trailing end of a curl of black ink peeks out of his collar, reaching up to just above his collarbone, and, through the thin material of his shirt, I swear I can make out the darkness of more tattoos sweeping down the side of his chest.
I’ve never particularly noticed or cared about the fact that the baristas here only wear half aprons.
I’m noticing now though…and finding myself immensely grateful to whoever made that decision.
Maybe it’s because I’m staring—hard—but I’m ninety percent sure the small curve of a smile playing across his beautifully shaped lips is twitching. Like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Now, what can I get for you, sunshine?”
My heart skips, leaping up to lodge halfway up my throat where its stuttering beat makes answering impossible. And all the while, he just stands there, patiently watching me, still with that knowingly amused smile, his head cocked expectantly to the side so that the black fringe of his bangs flops down across his forehead, almost into his eyes.
Pull yourself together. He callseveryonethat. He just wants a good tip, and he knows flirting and flattering are the best way to get it.
That or he’s privately laughing at my deer-in-the-headlights, open-mouthed staring. Jesus, I’m notactuallydrooling, am I?
Clearing my throat, I force myself to relax enough to choke out, “A quad latte. Soy.” And then, as a frantic afterthought, “Please.”
And of course, that last word has to come out all breathy and low, at the exact moment that I manage to pull myself together to let my eyes really settle on his.
God, I don’t even want tothinkabout what color my face has to be by now.
This is ridiculous. Shallow is usually the last thing I am, and yet, low and behold, here I am positively swooning over this complete and total stranger for reasons that are nothing but shallow.
“Sure thing.” His voice—a perfect medium, not too low, not too high—has a perky sound to it, like it’s smiling right along with the start of a grin that’s spreading across his face, showing off the tease of a dimple on his left cheek.
My eyes flick down to his chest—to where a name tag sits, clipped to the tight, thin pull of his t-shirt.Tristan.
It’s perfect for him. A bit hard and sharp, like the effortless appeal of his edgy look; a bit soft and sweet, like his warm hazel eyes and bubbly voice.
Leaning forward, Tristan flashes me a heart-stopping grin as he swipes a cup off the top of the stack right next to me on the counter, and I catch a whiff of fragrance lingering in his hair or on his skin; a softly minty vanilla and peach scent that makes me want to pull him closer for another breath.
Cup in hand, he rights himself, giving his head an easy toss to flick the swoop of his black bangs out of his eyes.
On autopilot, I fumble through paying for the coffee, nearly dropping my card on the counter when, as he reaches out to take it from me, the warmth of his index finger grazes againstmine for a split second. After he returns my card, I turn away from the counter, trying to look interested in the artwork displayed on the wall beside me to keep from watching him flit around the espresso station, making my drink.
I don’t see a damn thing that’s hanging on the wall. All I can hear is a voice that sounds far too much like Alex’s, goading me to turn back around, to make small talk. That here, in the form of this unexpectedly gorgeous stranger whose easy cheeriness and dazzling smiles scare the hell out of me, is an ideal opportunity to try to find myself that date I so desperately need if I want to avoid the horrors of Todd.
Sucking in a shuddery breath, I turn around.
“I haven’t seen you here before.” I’m cringing before the words are even halfway out of my mouth. What a shitty, cliché pickup line. And I don’t even mean it like that. I’m only trying to make conversation.
To build up to the pickup line.
Shit.
