Page 2 of The Attraction File

His shining brown eyes dimmed as my words began to sink in. Before he could get any more Wookie courage, I turned back to find the blonde still at the counter.

Normally, I left people alone because, unlike Albert, I respected their space. But surviving on only three hours of sleep before an interview for a job that I needed, action was necessary.

Taking a step forward, I tapped the blonde on her bulbous shoulder and took a breath. “Excuse me, Miss, but I believe it has been ten minutes, which is plenty of time to order your drink. Some of us don’t have the luxury of time, and were kept up by our roommate doing gymnastics in bed with her boyfriend until four in the morning.” I gritted my teeth and shook my head trying to get back on point. “So, if you wouldn’t mind placing your order and letting the rest of us have a turn . . .”

Just as I finished, the woman turned to face me.

She had a beard. Also, an Adam’s apple.

The woman wasn’t a she but a he. He had a beard, lush and blond like his long hair, not fake and matted like Albert’s costume. His eyes were the most beautiful gray, like smoke rising from a smoldering fire. They slid over my face.

I shivered.

“Miss?” His deep, velvety tone came out thick as butter and rendered me utterly catatonic. The timbre of his voice like a sonic boom under my skin. His skin, on the other hand, remained still, smooth, and my fingers, for reasons I am attributing to lack of sleep, twitched to touch any part of him.

His eyes widened at what I could only assume was disbelief. Disbelief that a woman of twenty-six years would be referring to a fine specimen of a man, a manly man if you will, as a woman. Despite his thick blond mane and skirted attire, he was all muscle.

I realized this man was in costume too, like Chewie. Only this man was dressed like the Scottish hero William Wallace and not a sweaty sci-fi version of Sasquatch. He even painted his face blue and white.

One would think that a tall man with thick muscles and a wild painted face would instill fear in me, but no. Instead of running in terror, I did the opposite. I laid my hands on him. My fingers caressed his chest working their way down. Doing the exact thing I just lectured Albert not to do. I should have stopped.

But I didn’t.

Never in my life had I taken advantage of anyone in this manner but he gave off some pheromone that screamed sex me with your hands. Sensing quickly how firm his chest was it propelled me farther down, down to his abs. The man had a six-pack or maybe even an eight-pack; whatever pack was hiding under that brown threadbare piece of cashmere was making my heart race and lady parts start to turn savage themselves.

“What are you doing?”

He was still there and I was still in the coffee shop. This wasn’t a dream. The kilted blond’s voice broke me out of my self-gratifying pawing and I realized I was feeling him up, or down as the case may be.

What are you doing, Evaleen?

I froze before snapping my hands away. I began to smooth out my unwrinkled brown blazer as if I wasn’t a chest molester and nothing out of the ordinary just happened. Clearing my throat, I tried to salvage what little dignity I had left.

“I . . . I . . .” Was all I could get out before I turned to look at the raven-haired barista who either had a rare eye condition that caused her to shoot fire at anyone she laid eyes upon, or she hated me right now. I was going with the latter, so I turned my gaze to the line of customers who had their phones turned up to face me as they filmed what had been occurring. Including Albert.

Great, not only am I mortified, but I will now be some viral Internet sensation known only as, The Woman Chest Molester.

Now it was the kilter’s turn to tap his foot as he folded his thick, strong arms in front of himself in protection from the mad chest molester. He’ll probably tell tales to his future kids and grandkids of the crazy chest molester. “Be wary of her,” he’d say in a low warning with his dialect suddenly turning from American to Scottish. After all, he was dressed as William Wallace.

As he crept down to their eye level, and as the window panes would rattle from the storm that swirled outside his Scottish castle, he would whisper, “For if wee girls and boys don’t do as they’re told, the wiry fingers of the deranged chest molester will grab hold!” The kids would cower, holding their blankets to their little faces; one girl would begin to cry as he wrapped his powerful arms gently around her tiny frame in comfort. He’d calm her as he broke out into an old Gaelic tune.

I start humming out loud the only Gaelic tune I knew, which wasn’t really a Gaelic tune but it’s Scottish, so close enough.

The barista interrupted my musical display, “Is that ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles’?”

I frowned in shame at what I had become in these past few minutes.

“Blue eyes,” the kilted blond mumbled as he stared at me.

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