Page 16 of David

“I only look like one?” he murmurs, his gaze dipping to... um… nothing.

There’s nothing there for him to see.

These are my workout sweatpants.

They are not even some of the nicer ones.They don’t have a rhinestone embellishment or a cute cat or a dog embroidered on them.

They’re bland, comfortable, and go well with my flip-flops.

Our eyes meet.

Wait.

Now they meet??

“Mm-hmm,” I say, unintimidated, studying his face.

He bites his lip, but I refuse to get distracted.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” I ask, my eyes still on his face.

His stubble doesn’t take away from his beautiful lips.

Again, he gives off mixed signals.

He looks like someone you’d want to play with for a while if you didn’t mind the heartache.

But thinking that you might have a chance to mean something for him in the long run is asking for trouble.

He seems arrogant, although he doesn’t feel as prickly as he looks.

He also seems aloof, but that may be also misleading.

There is something else about him. Something hidden behind his sexy eyes.

I’d love to say it’s something dark, but it’s mostly a riddle. A secret. Like a locked gate.

“Where could you possibly know me from?” he says evenly when the barista comes back with his drink.

Sadly, our conversation quickly draws to an end, and my answer becomes unnecessary.

He reaches inside his pocket, retrieves some cash, and drops it on the counter.

“Pack her cookies nicely,” he says, flicking his chin to the cookie jar before collecting his coffee, turning around, and walking out without gracing me with another look.

He signals his driver to stay put while he opens the door and slides in, his moves reminding me of a smooth, feral, and lethal wild creature.

The sound of the cellophane brushing against baked goods makes me turn my eyes to the barista.

“Do you know this man?” I ask while she slides thin cranberry chocolate cookies into a cellophane bag.

She ties a red ribbon around the gift bag's top and hands me the wrapped cookies.

“That’s David Moore,” she murmurs, looking at the man outside.

When I glance in that direction, the Bentley is on the move, gliding away.

“David Moore…” I murmur.

---