Accidentally Amy(19)

Izzy. In fact, even though we just started this text conversation, I’m sure the whole reason I’m late at all is because of you. Now leave me alone so I can pedal.
Blake set his phone on the table and lifted his coffee to his mouth. In the short time he’d known her, Izzy had consistently surprised him. And that was putting it mildly. Less than 12 hours before, when he’d called her after their unexpected night, she’d ignored his call and sent him a text, instead.
Blake picked up his phone again and scrolled through the exchange (for probably the tenth time) as he waited for her to arrive.
Izzy: I’m not answering because I need to think.
Blake: Um…?
Izzy: Imma b honest w/u. I like u and want 2 b ur friend.
Blake: Wtf happened to your texting? Are you a middle schooler now?
Izzy: I’m trying to jot down some ideas before I lose them so that was my attempt at quick-texting.
Blake: So I repeat my original Um…?
Izzy: I’m preparing some notes on how we can be friends without jeopardizing your career. Would you be interested in meeting at Starbucks tomorrow morning to review?
Blake: 8am?
Izzy: Perfect. Our Starbucks?
Blake set his phone down again. Our Starbucks.
At that moment, he saw her through the front window. She was bent down, locking up an old, ugly bike that looked to be something she might’ve picked up at a junkyard. She was wearing a black pullover with black leggings, and she had a messenger back slung across her body.
When she straightened and took off her helmet, the sight of her face made him feel something in his stomach.
Holy shit, were those fucking butterflies? They were - they were fucking butterflies.
God help him, he was now the equivalent of a hormonal adolescent.


    

Izzy
Izzy could barely walk as she entered Starbucks, her legs like jelly. Since her car was currently impounded because the city had towed it before she’d had a chance to get it towed to a garage, she was currently car-less. She’d foolishly thought no big deal, I’ll borrow Daphne’s bike.
Theoretically, she ran five miles every day so riding a bike would surely be easier, right? Wrong. She didn’t know if it was the bike, the hills, or her pathetic thighs, but she’d almost given up three times during her wayward journey. It was only Blake’s villainous eyes and hilarious texting that forced her to power through the wicked leg shakes.
She ran a hand over her ponytail and ordered a PSL, refusing to search for Blake until she caught her breath and had her drink. She needed to focus on her goal and not be distracted by his ridiculous good looks.
Side note: Freaking Blake had been in her dream last night, wearing long flowing robes and a dangerous vibe that made her wake up empathizing with Bella Swan's vampirious propensities. WTF, right? Her goal that morning, in truth, was lame. Like, so super lame that she felt, well, pathetic. Because her goal, in a nutshell, was to convince him to be her friend. That was it - please be my friend.
Hello, first grade Isabella - some things never change.
“Izzy?” The barista yelled, reading the label.
“Thank you.” She grabbed her drink and immediately saw Blake, sitting at a table in the back.
Daaaaamn, that man was ridiculous.
He was wearing a black hoodie, which should’ve made him look casual, but something about him just screamed important. The watch, the good haircut, the big hands - well, okay, the big hands didn’t make him important, per se, but her eyes sure enjoyed them; the whole package just shouted successful.
“Good morning.” Blake smiled up at her in a way that made her smile back, and she was glad he wasn’t one of those guys who stood up for a woman. She knew the gesture came from a traditional, respectful place, but it always made her feel awkward and like she was a little less of an adult than the man.
“I am so sorry I’m late.” She pulled off her bag, set it on one of the extra chairs at the table, and sat down. “As it turns out, I’m a terrible cyclist.”
“I could’ve picked you up,” he said, his dark eyes warm as he wrapped a big hand around his cup.
She really had to force herself to stop thinking about those big hands on her face as he’d kissed the everloving shit of her mere hours before.
“Nope,” she replied, reaching over to unzip her bag. “Against the rules.”
“We have rules?” he asked with an eyebrow raised.
“The most important part of my plan, actually,” she said, taking out her laptop and turning it on. “Are the unflinchingly rigid rules.”
“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asked.
Izzy looked up from her computer, and he was asking it so sweetly - paired with such a concerned look - that she swallowed hard. Good lord, questions like that - from him - could totally destroy her.
She looked down at her computer, feeling a little shaky, and said, “Yeah, I only need four hours so I’m good.”


    Blake
As he watched her unlocking her laptop and clicking into files, Blake thought it was cool that she wasn’t wearing makeup. Not in a sexist “she doesn’t need it” or “I like the natural look” way - hell, he didn’t give a rat’s ass who wore what - but he was glad she didn’t feel compelled to put it on in order to meet him at Starbucks. It made him feel like she was comfortable with him.
“Okay. So.” She turned her laptop so he could see the display and said, “Scooch closer.”
Blake wanted to laugh when, after he followed her directive, she said, “Good boy.”