Behind His Lens(30)

“Hi, Jude,” she hums softly, and my insides liquefy.

“I got you a vanilla latte,” I twist around to point to the table sandwiched between our two armchairs. “But if you want something else I can go grab it.” I shove my hands into my pockets nervously and turn back toward her.

“That’s perfect, thank you,” she sighs, seemingly surprised that I remembered her drink of choice. The sweet glow behind her eyes makes me want to purchase a dozen more lattes for her just to prolong the desired effect.

In a flourish of graceful movements, she folds herself into the chair as I sit down in silence. She unwraps her navy scarf from around her neck. I try to slyly study her over the brim of my coffee cup. The moment the silky material slips away, the radiant skin between her neck and the top of her shirt is finally revealed. It’s tantalizing, a little sliver of milky perfection.

She sighs, breaking my trance, and picks up her latte. With a glance to the right and left, she nods. “This place is really cool.”

We’re in one of my favorite coffee shops in New York. It’s tucked away behind an old book store. Most people walk by the warn brick building without a second thought. I stumbled in a few years ago, on a rainy day, and was completely hooked. The chairs are comfortable and inviting, the lights are bright enough to read but low enough to feel intimate, and mellow music is always playing softly in the background.

“I usually hide away in here on the weekends.”

She glances up me at me with a bemused smile, as if she can’t picture me actually doing that. Does she expect me to prowl for women every moment of my life?

“Are you a reader?”

I nod slowly, “I devour books like candy.” She licks her lips when I say the word devour and I let myself dream that she wants me as badly as I do her.

“Same here. Who’s your favorite author?”

“I don’t have one, it’s too hard to pick.”

After taking a sip of her latte, she sets the cup down. “Interesting.”

“Is it?” I beckon with a half smile.

She props her elbow on the side of the overstuffed armchair and rests her chin on her palm. “What are you reading right now?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

She cocks one of her eyebrows, “Are you a Classics man?”

I run my fingers against my short stubble. “I haven’t decided yet. Sometimes I find myself liking contemporary fiction more. I never get tired of a good mystery.” I take a long drag of my black coffee.

She’s purposely keeping the conversation aimed on me, but I want to know about her. “What about you, Charley? What book are you reading right now?”


“‘I Was Told There’d Be Cake’ by Sloane Crosley. It’s a collection of her essays.” A shadow of a smile graces her lips. “I’m only a quarter of the way through, but it’s really funny so far.”

I nod, “Have you read Sedaris?”

She grins. “Love him.”

“Yeah, I can tear through his books in a few hours.”

“Maybe you can let me borrow one of your mystery books sometime.”

I nod, “Definitely. Although I usually end up having the weirdest dreams if I read a thriller right before going to bed.”

“That happens to me too! I’m always being chased or having to flee the country or something.” She laughs before narrowing her eyes on me and reaching over to take another sip of her coffee. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it seems like I wasn’t what she was expecting. Did she think we’d have nothing in common?

After we take our sips, I glance over at her and ask a question I hadn’t thought of before now.

“Is Charley a nickname?”

The moment the question hangs in the air between us, I see her entire demeanor change. Her shoulders slump and her eyes flash down to her drink.

The pad of her finger drags along the brim of her cup and her eyes study its thin trail intently. “No.”

What? Does she not like her name?

Her peculiar response leaves me briefly flustered and I can’t think of anything to say, so we sit in silence for a moment. I didn’t mean to bring up a negative subject; I want her to be happy with me. I scroll through my mental Rolodex of small-talk topics and land on music. But just when I’m about to ask about her favorite band, her eyes slide up my body.

“Is Jude a nickname?”