Page 26 of The Longshot

I swiftly dart my attention over my shoulder, following his eyes across the road, where I am not only greeted by a familiar storefront but also by an unmistakable face.

I told you I never forget a face.

Chelsie.

I’d be lying if I hadn’t thought about her once… twice… maybe more than three times since our encounter last week. Dwelling on unique ways I could casually stumble into Ruby’s Bakery and walk away with a whole lot more than just her name...

She looks even better than when I’d seen her last. Her short blonde hair is down this time, tucked behind her ears as her bag aches to break free from her shoulder until, all at once, it drops suddenly to the floor.

I see my opportunity.

“Watch and learn, lads,” I declare, grimacing at the way they shoot me an impressed stare as I speed my way across the street.

“Looks like you need a hand,” I proclaim, my voice loud. Chelsie jumps back, visibly startled, as she scans me up and down. “Lucky for you, I’ve got two that I know how to use quite well…”

It takes her a second to resettle, but when she does, I can see it in her eyes that she recognizes me.

That she remembers me.

How could she not?

Regardless, I take the liberty to remind her just in case. “It’s Wilks…” I flash her a tender smile before I quickly correct myself. “Gary,” I clear my throat. “Remember?”

She reaches to pick up her bag from off the ground, securing it back onto her shoulder as she stands. “The crazy cake guy,” she speaks coyly, yet softens her gaze. “How could I possibly forget?”

I can’t tell if she’s being flirtatious or sarcastic. It doesn’t matter, all that matters is the way she’s commanding my attention with that glimmer in her eyes.

“So, does that mean you missed me?” I playfully throw her way, carefully studying her face as she twists the key into the lock and closes up the shop.

Christ.

She’s got these long eyelashes and sweet lips. They’re so rosy, plump, soft… or so I’m assuming. I suppose the only real way to know would be to?—

“Drop another cake onto yourself?” She furrows her brows, yet her eyes are full of questions. “Or are you just following me?”

She’s got a sense of humor. I don’t know if there is any hotter trait in a woman.

“Following you?” I repeat. “Nah, that’s not my style, love,” I tell her with a shake of my head. “I was already walking this way, and you just so happened to be here. I hear they call that fate. Destiny. It’s like we’re meant to be or something.”

She bashfully rolls her eyes, clearly not used to this kind of attention.

I can’t understand why, though.

She’s beautiful.

Surely, I’m not the only guy who's attempted to shoot my shot with her.

Am I?

“What?” I seek clarity in the smile that threatens to break through her stoic face, only motivating me that much more to force one out of her. “Haven’t you had someone flirt with you before?”

She places her hands on her hips, tilting her head to the side. “This what you call flirting?”

I run my tongue along my lower lip, biting down ever so softly to suppress a smirk. God, her voice is enchanting—I remember that from the first time we spoke. But now that I’m under less strenuous circumstances, I can really assess the intricacies of her accent.

What part of England is she from?

She’s Northern. Yorkshire, perhaps?

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