Natural.
An accidental run-in that would give me a legitimate reason to talk to Marley again. But sitting here, waiting, I feel as though every person in this coffee shop can see right through me. Like they all know I’m a grown-ass man who’s been thinking about a red-haired woman with quirky glasses for four straight days. Who left me a note in the app that somehow has shaken my foundations—‘For making me believe in decent humans again.’
Those words have been living rent-free in my head since she left them on that twenty-dollar tip. No one’s ever looked at me the way she did that night, like I was a regular, decent guy.
Not the VP of Las Vegas Defiance MC.
Not Damon Blackwell, the billionaire.
Just…
Someone who gave a shit when she needed it the most.
And now I need to see her again, like I need to breathe air.
The bell above the door chimes, and my entire body flashes on high alert.
But it’s not her.
Just some person in a business suit who looks as if he hasn’t slept in a week.
I take another sip of the terrible coffee and recheck my phone.Six-fifty-nine.
My leg is bouncing under the table, a nervous energy and a dead giveaway that something is going on that I can’t control. Queenie would laugh her ass off if she could see me right now. Her big, tough grandson reduced to a pile of anxiety over a woman he barely knows.
But that’s the thing, it doesn’t feel as though I barely know her.
It feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone to look at me the way she did. Vulnerable, honest, and devastatingly beautiful even through her tears.
Like maybe I could be the kind of man who deserves someone like that.
Someone likeher.
The bell chimes again.
And there she is.
My breath catches in my throat, and every rational thought I had flies straight out of my goddamn brain.
Marley.
She’s wearing jeans that hug her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry, and an olive green cardigan over a vintage Fleetwood Mac T-shirt that looks soft and worn. Her red hair is pulled back in a messy bun with those loose curls girls love framing her face, and a pair of quirky glasses is perched on her nose, catching the morning light streaming through the windows.
She looks tired. There are faint shadows under her eyes as if she hasn’t been sleeping well, but she is smiling at the barista, and Christ, that smile does something to my chest that feels dangerous.
I watch her order something with way too many modifiers that makes the barista write furiously on the cup, and I’m frozen in my seat like a goddamn statue.
This is it.
This is my moment.
I stand up too fast, and my knee slams into the table. Coffee sloshes out of my cup, and the couple next to me jumps.
“Sorry,” I mutter, grabbing napkins and trying to mop up the mess without looking like a complete idiot.
Smooth, Nitro. Real fucking smooth.
But Marley hasn’t noticed. She’s at the pickup counter, checking her phone, and I know I have maybe thirty seconds before she receives her order and walks out of here for the morning.
