The Heart Principle (The Kiss Quotient #3)(12)

I smile with dry lips as I type, Gotta go. So nervous I could barf. I’ll tell you about it later.

With that, I drop my phone into my purse and venture beyond the security of my apartment. I make a detour to the pharmacy, where my merchandise is confusingly located in between ovulation kits and men’s diapers and the high school–aged kid at the cash register is too embarrassed to look at me as he rings up my purchase. Still, I arrive at the bar early enough to grab the last open booth with a view of the street.

I text him, At the bar. Last booth on the right, and then I settle in to wait. The bar has a rugged feel, with old barrels and photographs of farms decorating the walls. It’s fairly busy, but the music isn’t too loud and the lighting is comfortable. It’s pretty easy to pretend confidence and ignore my nerves.

Through the window, I see a motorcycle pull up to the curb. The rider climbs off, pockets his gloves, and removes his helmet, revealing a cleanly shaven scalp that few men can pull off. It works for him, though. Together with his close-fitting motorcycle jacket, black pants, boots, and active build, he looks like a Marvel action hero—or villain. There’s an undeniable edginess to him, something just a bit dangerous. Or maybe a lot dangerous. It’s in the smooth way he moves, the strong but swift lines of his body, the air of steadiness about him.

My entire being goes still as recognition hits me. It’s him. He’s not just a profile on a website. That badass tattooed guy in the picture, the one who I thought was perfectly discardable because he’s so far from being suitable for me. He’s a real person with a life and a past and feelings. And he’s here.

As I watch, he clips his helmet to the back of his bike. Close to another helmet that’s strapped to the far end of the seat. Two helmets. It looks like he brought one for me.

For whatever reason, that sends a jolt of pure panic to my chest. My anxiety grows when he digs his phone from his pocket, taps out a quick message, and my own phone, which is sitting faceup on the table, illuminates with the words, Just got here.

My muscles tense, and pinpricks of sensation wash over my skin. I tell myself this is just a meaningless date, a one-night stand. People do this all the time.

The problem is I don’t know if I can do this. What if in trying to be true to myself, I’m unkind to him? He looks tough, but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone. What if I hurt him?

When he disappears toward the front doors of the bar, this feeling of wrongness intensifies. It blows out of proportion. It explodes.

I can’t control myself. I gather my things. And I run. There isn’t a line for the bathroom, so I don’t need to wait to lock myself in one of the stalls. Sitting on the toilet and hugging my phone and purse to my chest, I rock back and forth. I tap my teeth together, comforted by the feel of it. My face burns. There’s a roaring in my ears.

My phone buzzes with messages, but I don’t look. I don’t want to see. I just want him to go away, so I can go home and pretend this never happened. I need to find a different way to solve my problem, but I’ll do it later, when I can think.

I wait, counting seconds in my head. A minute goes by. Another. I lose track of my counting—I’ve never been good at remembering numbers—so I start back at one and simply focus on counting to sixty again and again.

When a good amount of time has passed and I get another text message, I’m calm enough to look at my phone.

Hey, I think I’m at the table is his first message.

Then: Are you okay?

Followed by: I guess something came up.

His most recent message says, I’m heading out. Worried about you.

I cover my eyes with a palm. Why does he have to be so nice? This would be easier if he was more of an asshole. Relieved, and guilty about it, I hurry from the bathroom.

And collide with him.

Firm chest. Solid body. Warm. Alive. Real.

This is horrible. Absolutely horrible.

His hands wrap around my upper arms for an instant as he puts space between us, and the shock of his touch reverberates through me.

“Hey,” he says, his expression blank with surprise.

My lips form the word hey, but my vocal chords refuse to make a sound. His throat is directly at my eye level, and I’m staring straight at the swirling calligraphy inked into his skin.

Tattoos.

On his neck.

Neck tattoos.

I knew that he had lots of tattoos, but somehow it’s different seeing him—them—in person. Classical musicians don’t get tattooed like this. Or have shaved heads and ride motorcycles and look like sexy villains. None that I know, anyway. One probably exists somewhere. Part of me thought it would be an adventure to try something new and be with a guy like this tonight.

But this doesn’t feel like an adventure.

This feels terrifying.

He’s nothing like Julian, and Julian is all I’ve ever known.

“I was just going to …” He points at the door to the men’s room, right next to the women’s room, and his eyes twinkle as his lips curve into a smile, like someone’s just told him a secret.

My frazzled brain malfunctions, and I can’t catch my breath. He’s disastrously gorgeous when he smiles. Something wonderful radiates from the heart of him, realigning the features of his rough exterior and making him beautiful.

“Have you been in there all this time?” he asks.