The Real(2)

I deserved them, and so did every other woman on the planet. No makeup, no calorie counting, no responsibility. It was my this-is-the-face-I-was-born-with day. All of that, and the fact that I’d nabbed my favorite table was the whipped cream on top. The guy sitting across from me seemed like the possibility of a cherry. Too bad I’d transferred from the risk-taking department a year ago and into self-preservation. It was a pretty boring department.

Even so, his smile was almost enough to make me want to play roulette.

My own thoughts were whoring me out as if I needed to be rump ready.

Get a grip, girl. It’s possible that he’s a crazy person. He could sew women’s flesh into blankets as souvenirs of his kill list. He could be imagining a new skin quilt with your name all over it.

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I had been so careful for three-hundred and sixty-five long days. Annoyingly, no one else in my life had issues and they were moving forward in leaps and bounds. Then there was me, afraid to even say hello to anyone new, and then all of a sudden, BAM!

One look from that fine-ass man in a room full of caffeine fiends and I was ready to abort my morals and any internal warning that kept me at a distance.

All of them, poof, gone because of that damned smile. It stretched wide, enhancing the most alluring and deeply etched dimples I’d ever seen. They were the real thing, nestled in the corners of his perfect mouth. They didn’t make him boyishly handsome. They were dead sexy. Few men could pull that off.

He wasn’t testing the waters, either; he was drinking me in with zero hesitation.

Bold.

Bold quiltmaker!

With a kicking pulse, I met his stare, and we appreciated each other, though I wasn’t sure what he saw when he looked at me. It was too late to wipe the chin goo off without being obvious. I was positive my lime green nightly face mask still tinted my skin. Heat crept up my neck as he took in my Northwestern hoodie, black leggings, and Nikes. I hadn’t run a mile, but I looked like I had, and that was a bonus. Though if he saw me run, well, that would be the real tragedy.

I have a kind of running affliction. It’s like some spastic part of me can’t believe my body is doing it for exercise, rather than running for my life. From the way my friend, Bree explained it, my run looked like the way Julia Louis-Dreyfus danced on Seinfeld, except . . . worse. She said when I run, my arms look like they’re giving my body a vigorous pep talk.

I’m a bit bow-legged too, so there was that. But this man knew none of that. His smile told me he didn’t mind my lazy appearance, caramel-covered chin, or alien colored skin. From looks alone, he was the type of man you dressed up for. And if Old Jade Eyes and I had a future, he was staring at worst case scenario and smiling at it.

He was dressed in knee-length, black mesh sports shorts and a gray hoodie. His Nikes looked new.

He lifted an eyebrow, as my Mac pinged with an invitation for AirDrop. His name was no longer a mystery, and I felt a little panic creep in.

Cameron’s Mac: Hi.

I looked above my laptop and took a deep breath before I accepted his invitation.

Abbie’s Mac: Hi.

Abbie, he’s going to wear your skin! I tried to ignore my inner voice.

Cameron’s Mac: I saw you with the homeless guy.

Abbie’s Mac: Ok?

He took a sip out of his Real Men Love Pomeranians mug and shrugged before he typed.

Cameron’s Mac: So, that was nice of you. Most people in the city just walk on by.

Abbie’s Mac: Oh. Most people do walk past Bennie. But he’s different and I’m not most people.

He lifted a brow and bit his lip.

Cameron’s Mac: I see that.

Cameron’s Mac: Want to have your next cup with me?

Say yes, say yes! It’s only coffee!

Abbie’s Mac: No, thank you.

You idiot.

His brows drew tight with his frown.

Cameron’s Mac: Sure? How about some breakfast?

My pulse raced with the memory of my last reaction to that type of attention and the consequences, and I answered without another thought.

Abbie’s Mac: No, thanks.

His chuckle was deep and covered me, even across the space between us. He bit his full bottom lip as he typed, his smirk still intact.

Fuck. Me. Damn it, Abbie!

Cameron’s Mac: Well, I guess today is not my day.

Abbie’s Mac: That’s all you’ve got?

I had no clue why I sent that message . . . why I was bothered that he didn’t try harder. Just that fucking smirk. It was sexy as hell.

He read my message and shrugged as he typed.

Cameron’s Mac: You seem to enjoy coffee. I don’t have an agenda. You’re beautiful, I noticed. I wanted to drink coffee with you. You said no. I’m going to scrape up the rest of my pride now and head out.

He closed his laptop and stood while I deflated. Damn it. He was being nice. Since when are guys just . . . nice?

Am I a man hater? Have I become that woman?

I spoke up as he slipped his computer into a worn leather bag.

“I’m sorry,” I offered in quick apology. “I was expecting some horrible line or screwed up proposition. The web, messaging, anything that has to do with technology has been hazardous for me. I’ve seen enough unsolicited dick pics for a lifetime. I was just being cautious.” And that was the truth. But I’d said it aloud in verbal vomit. Did I really say “dick pics” out loud?