“How about we do Macrina’s around ten?”
“Okay, sounds good. See you then.”
“Love ya, sis. Bye!” she chimed.
“Love you too,” I said begrudgingly, taking a sip of my wine to ease the blow. Sisters. As I swallowed my first sip of the Oregon pinot noir, I noticed a gentleman sitting a couple of seats to the right of me. He was staring at me and he wasn’t being very subtle about it, either.
I looked over. Son of a gun. It was my blue-eyed stranger.
“Hey, it’s you,” he said accusingly, narrowing his eyes at me. “Do you remember me?”
I just stared at him, utterly surprised that the man I’d been daydreaming about like a teenager for the last four days was sitting two seats down from me. What were the odds? I quickly recovered and found my voice. “Now that’s a pickup line I haven’t heard before,” I replied, proud of my witty response.
His face froze and then looked crestfallen.
I instantly felt bad for teasing him. “I’m just playing with you,” I added quickly and gave him a little smile. “Of course I remember you. It’s hard to forget the guy who hit you with his car.”
He winced at my reminder and then gave me a deprecating smile. He was about to speak when his phone rang; he held up his index finger for me to hold on. I took another sip of my wine and sneaked a peek at his profile while he spoke on the phone. It might’ve been because I hadn’t just been knocked into confusion from being hit by a vehicle, but he was more attractive than I remembered. He wore a light blue button down shirt that brought out the blue in the eyes I couldn’t forget. I could tell he took care of himself because his designer jeans hung nicely off his lean hips. His sandy brown hair was cut close but still had enough length for it to be a little messy on top. I imagined running my fingers through it. Did I just think that? Trying to shake that image from my mind, I continued to study him. He had a strong, masculine jaw with a day’s worth of stubble on it. I bit my lower lip as I watched him. He was definitely sexy …
I could wax poetic about why shoes were an early indicator of the type of man that wore them. A man’s shoes could tell you if he was trying too hard or if he was clueless about fashion. They told you if he was conservative, trendy or artsy. In our younger days, Anna and I made judgment calls on whether or not to date someone merely by his shoe selection. Yes, I knew this was shallow and I’d like to say I’ve come a long way from that, but some old habits were hard to break. His shoes looked expensive; clean and black with a little metrosexual style going on. In translation, he was successful, confident, casual, and not completely clueless about fashion.
Checking him out made me self-conscious about my own appearance; part of me desperately wanted to run to the bathroom and make sure I didn’t have anything in my teeth. I was glad I was wearing my best jeans, dark denim that flattered both my hips and ass, topped with a simple white V-neck t-shirt. I shrugged. It certainly wasn’t my most alluring attire, but I hadn’t planned on impressing anyone today.
Just as I was wondering if I still had some lipstick on, he hung up his phone. He walked the few feet over to the empty seat next to me and paused. “Well, it looks like I’ve been stood up. The person I was supposed to meet is working late.” He didn’t look too disappointed.
I gave him a sympathizing look nonetheless. “Join the club.”
He chuckled and looked down towards my toes. With my legs crossed, I was unconsciously swinging by foot back and forth and I had accidentally just bumped his calf. “Fancy, that,” he said with a smile. “Another coincidence.”
“What’s the other coincidence?” I asked. I stopped kicking my leg. It was a nervous habit of mine.
He smirked. “Well, the fact that I bumped into you here, after nearly killing you with my car the other day seems to be a rather big coincidence, don’t you think?”
I nodded, embarrassed I didn’t clue into something so obvious, and returned his smile with my own. “Ah yes, of course, the accident.”
“So I never got your name that day …” he trailed off curiously.
“Sorry about that. I was in a bit of a hurry.” I extended my hand to him. “I’m Julia.”
He took my hand. “I’m Ryan. It’s nice to meet you again.” He grinned.
The contact of our hands sent a current through my body. His hand was soft and warm, his handshake firm. Our eyes locked for several moments longer than normal for a standard greeting. His grey-blue eyes pulled me in and wouldn’t let me go. I felt my pulse speed and my breath hitch. As the moment passed beyond what was considered appropriate, we both seemed to be recognizing that a unique connection was being made. I looked down at our clasped hands and, much to my disappointment, he suddenly released my hand. We gave each other flustered grins. The bartender had just walked up to us, interrupting my longest handshake on record. My face felt warm.