Outside the Lines(18)

“Sorry again, Felicity,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you here again. I pretty much live on coffee.”

“Me too. Well, coffee and wine,” I say and laugh at myself. Did I really just say that? Why not tell him that the wine is drunk out of a plastic Butter Beer mug while Ser Pounce circles my feet?

“Both are essential,” he says and hands me my drink. “Good luck with the asshole client.”

“Thanks, I’ll probably need it.” My eyes flick to the gallery across the street. “This day can’t get much worse, can it?”

“Let’s hope not.” He lets his eyes run over me, slowly, deliberately. He wants me to know he’s checking me out … and liking what he’s seeing.

Holy shit.

I’m fairly confident only this guy can make a coffee shop parking lot an erotic experience. I’m blushing as I turn to get into the car. I close the door and pull my shirt up, untucking it from my skirt. I undo the buttons and yank it off. It’s way too stained and wet to wear. I toss my head back against the seat. What the fuck should I do?

I sigh and hang the shirt on the passenger seat, hoping it might dry if I blast it with the A.C. I look at the clock.

I’m now fifteen minutes late. I put the car in reverse, realize that my phone and brownie are on the hood, and frantically grab them. Then I high-tail it across the street. I get out, get my purse, and gather my composure, catching my reflection in my window. If only I’d worn any other shirt under my blouse than this … Whatever. R2D2 is awesome.

My heart skips a beat. I lean against the door of my car, taking a few minutes to text Erin and calm down. Plus I need to process Hot Guy.

What is wrong with me? I should have flirted back, right? Maybe asked for his name at least? Oh well. I’ll never see him again. I shake my head when I realize that I’ve wasted another five minutes. Now I’m twenty minutes late.

I fluff my hair, take a deep breath—I smell like coffee, though I say that’s not a bad thing—and push my shoulders back. It is what it is. I’m going to go in, set this shit up, then get the hell out of dodge.

I grab my work bag from the back, heft it up over my shoulder, and hold my head up as I walk into the gallery. Mindy looks up when the door opens. Her eyebrows go up as she takes in my Star Wars tank top. It’s form fitting with a scoop neck, showing more of my tits than is appropriate.

“I’m ready to get started,” I say, cutting right to the chase.

“Uh, okay,” she says, blinking back her shock. “I’ll let Ben know you’re here.”

“Thanks.” I set the bag down on her desk, eyeballing the sleek computer that takes the place of the old dinosaur that sat in its place a few days ago. Mindy gets up, repulsion of my fashion choice clear on her face. She’s looking good again today in a cream suit, hair in loose waves pinned back by shiny barrettes. Her makeup is flawless. Seriously, people have skin that even and clear?

Maybe she had some sort of procedure done. I doubt it. I’m sure my tainted high school memories glorified her a bit, my teenage mind thinking her better than she really is, but I’m pretty sure her skin had always been that way. Mine isn’t particularly bad, but I don’t look like a centerfold come to life.

Her heels click on the hardwood floor and she disappears into the gallery. Two of the paintings from Monday are gone, making the entrance look bare. I didn’t doubt the talent of this Ben guy, but I doubted the price tags. Not being into art or anything classy like that, I had no idea what the going rate was for a custom piece like that, though.

I click my nails on the desk as I wait, disliking this Ben guy even more as each minute ticks by. Finally, Mindy trots back to her desk.

“He’ll be right down. You can start with his computer. He’s busy, you know. You should hurry so he can get to work.”

I swallow the retort that’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll hurry because I want out of here, not because Ben-Diva needs his precious time.

“Sure,” I say and take another breath. A door opens and closes from inside the gallery, and I hear heavy footfalls come downstairs. Ben rounds the corner and it’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop onto the floor. Color rushes to my cheeks.

Son of a bitch.

It’s worse than any Shyamalan twist: Asshole, little-miss-diva Ben is the hot guy from the coffee shop.





CHAPTER FIVE





We stare at each other, neither speaking, for several beats. Mindy looks back and forth, not following our expressions of abhorrence.

“Felicity,” Ben finally says and his eyes settle on my breasts. “Nice outfit choice.”