Five minutes.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
“Anything else?” I snap.
“Don’t you want my address?” I swear there’s a tilt to his lips but with the rest of his expression cool and detached, I can’t accurately tell.
“That’s a little presumptuous.”
“For the dry cleaning check,” he says it like it’s a question, with an arched brow and sparkling eyes.
Embarrassmentfloodsme and I shove my blouse into his stomach.
“I don’t havetimeto take it,” I seethe through gritted teeth.
Then, in a haze of humiliation, I tuck the coffee beneath one arm, yank a notepad and pen from my purse, scribble down my address, tear out the page and shove that at him too.
I straighten my spine, as if that’s going to help me glare levelly at him when he towers over me by about one foot five.
“Thanks for the shirt.”
Tens of pairs of eyes follow me as I walk to the door, then open it and leave.
The breeze bites at my heated cheeks but the latte warms my hand. For a moment I want to pause and digest what just happened, but I don’t have time.
I run three blocks in my secondhand heels, blisters forming before I reach the door. The receptionist waves me through with an anxious smile and I step into Mr. Daniels’ office, red, sweating and out of breath.
The screen is the first thing I see, and in it, leaning lazily back in his lawyer’s leather chair, his hand tapping the table impatiently, a dangerously smug expression on his face, my husband.
Augusto
I watch the door for a few moments after she leaves, feeling like I’ve been knocked off balance, my thoughts lagging a step behind where they should be.
I just gave my brand new shirt to a woman I’ve never met before.
She was in distress, sure, but that wasn’t what propelled me to strip half naked in the middle of a coffee shop and give away my seven hundred dollar shirt.
Part of me wanted to listen to her yell at me all day. Her fire was like a chemical weapon, drawing me in only to obliterate my brain. But another part of me wanted to watch her stumble over her words when she realized I’d stripped off right in front of her.
When her cheeks colored, my dick woke up. Her eyes were pale blue and wide, shimmering like dewdrops, her hair bouncing with the same exasperated energy that fueled her mouth.
God, everything about her washot.
Her body, her pout, her scrunched up nose, that mouth…
Discreetly adjusting myself, I slip the paper she shoved at my chest into my pocket without glancing at it, and turn back to the barista.
He’s wedging my fresh coffees into a tray with the focus of a man trying to diffuse a bomb, while his colleagues are mopping up the mess we created with our collision.
I slide him a ten dollar note for his trouble, then carry them out to the street.
Another, slightly less entertaining, inconvenience awaits me at the front of my vehicle.
“Yo,” I grunt.
The traffic cop looks up and his face falls. He quickly shoves his device out of sight.
Despite being one of the longer standing members of the Di Santo mob, I have one of the lesser-known faces, but traffic and law enforcement agencies know exactly who I am.
