Page 2 of Yield to Me

“I could make sure your work gets into the right hands,” he said.

I looked out the window, willing another group to walk in and interrupt the conversation. A man in a hoodie hustled past, his elbow hitting the door and rattling the windows. He disappeared beyond the cafe. Damn it, I thought, Come back! This man’s persistence, no matter how gorgeous he may have been, was rude. He couldn’t be bothered to listen to my words or read my body language. Maybe I should’ve said, Fuck off, buddy! Maybe that would’ve been loud and clear enough. But Bobby was hovering nearby, and I know he was listening in. Everyone was. Everyone, including Bobby, thought this guy was special. But I could see through his bullshit.

“I don’t need your help,” I said coldly, “but thanks for the offer.”

Once he had ordered, Clay immediately started making his espresso drink, his blond curls whipping his cheeks as he spun around. The man walked over to Bobby and started talking, and I did my best to ignore it. Thankfully, the milk steamer screamed loud enough that I could block them out completely. But Bobby looked happy, and the man was smiling, so I relaxed, knowing my job wasn’t in jeopardy.

One of the dancers, a woman with zebra streaks and bronze skin, walked towards the two of them, her shoulders loose like a cat as she approached. Her pink lips puckered, and her eyes were narrow and close, focused on her prey. Two of the other women followed her slowly, their hands on their hips. They were like vultures narrowing in on him. The man addressed them with a polite smile on his face, but it was his handshake that showed he was dismissing them without a second thought.

He continued talking to Bobby while sipping his drink. I tried not to look too shocked at the situation. What bothered me the most about the whole thing was that this wasn’t some drunken banter from an egotistical businessman. This was different. The man knew me somehow, maybe he had even watched me. It made me wonder why he had noticed me at the galleries when clearly he was the type of man who could get any woman he wanted. There had to be a trap somewhere in this.

I wiped down one of the few empty tables, working from front to back of the coffee shop, making sure not to face him. The door chimed and Clay called me to help with the cash register. As I was ringing the next customer up, I noticed I had left a dirty rag on one of the tables. I rushed around to grab it and ran straight into one of the dancers, spilling her iced coffee everywhere. Fate was smiling down on her; it hadn’t gotten on the dancer, only all over my shirt, the floor, and the table I had cleaned.

“I am so sorry,” I said. “I can’t—”

“Ugh, rude,” the dancer said. She scowled at me. “What about my coffee?”

“Here’s another one, ma’am,” Clay said, his gangly arm reaching across the counter. “We apologize for that.”

I kneeled and started mopping up the splatters. I felt my cheeks heating again out of embarrassment and frustration. A soapy mop appeared in the corner of my eye.

“Thanks,” I said, not looking up, assuming it was Bobby. A hand reached down to help me up, and I saw suit cuffs, an expensive looking watch, and the fair skin that didn’t belong to the owner. It was the dark haired man. I could smell the barest hint of cedar and smoke coming off of his skin, bringing me back to that forest again. I looked in his eyes, wanting to lose myself in them, and getting pissed that I would even think of that. Still, warmth crawled through my body as I took his hand.

“Thanks,” I murmured. I tried taking the mop, but his grip was firm around the handle. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

He smiled this time, not a smirk like before, but a real smile. He nodded at the splashes on the coffee table.

“Take care of that,” he said.

I nodded and found a fresh rag in the back room, and came back with all-purpose spray and a Caution: Slippery When Wet sign. The man had finished cleaning the floor and was handing the used rag to Clay. I shook my head. Even after all of this mess, I had still forgotten the dirty rag.

“I’m Owen,” the man said, holding out his hand. “Owen Lowell.”

I hesitated for a moment, looking at his hand, then took it. “Riley Glass,” I said. His hand was warm and big, as if it could swallow my cold fingers. I felt sheepish as his grip showed how strong he was; I could feel the muscle in his thick fingers. It made him seem even stronger than before. He was tall, and strong with meat on his bones, like a thick tree trunk. He eased his grasp, but held me there, looking into my eyes. Reading me.

“I’ll see you soon, Miss Glass,” he said. As his hand left mine, I resisted the urge to shiver. But I couldn’t resist watching him walk out, disappearing where the windowed wall ended. It was then that I noticed how quiet it was in the café, like he had taken the storm with him.

Clay whistled. “Owen Lowell on Broadway,” he said. “That’s different.”

“You know him?” I asked, moving the mop to the back room.

“I didn’t want to scare you, but he’s one of the most influential men in San Francisco,” Bobby paused, his finger resting on his chin. “Maybe even the nation.”

“You don’t get his type in these parts,” Clay said.

“Strip clubs get a lot of businessmen. They come here all the time,” I said.

“Not Lowell’s type. He could afford high-end escorts to entertain business partners in the Financial District,” Clay said. “Why bother coming here?”

“And he liked you,” Bobby said. He put his hand on my shoulder as if to lean on me, even though we were the same height. He stared out the window. “He was definitely hitting on you.”

“Shut up,” I said, shaking my shoulder out of the owner’s grip. “He felt pity for me for being a clumsy barista.”

“And he even helped you clean up, which some might consider being excessively nice,” Clay said. He laughed. “Also known as flirting.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like he asked for my number,” I said. “It’s because I’m a woman and we’re next to a strip club.”

“Shut up, Riley. You know you’re pretty,” Clay said. I knew I wasn’t ugly, but I also knew I was the Plain Jane type; brown wavy hair, matching brown eyes, average height and the usual soft curves. The only difference between me and the next brunette was a mole on my left cheek that strangers liked to make comments about, as if I were the next Marilyn Monroe. If I wore makeup, I was tipped more, because otherwise, I was easy to overlook.

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