Page 8 of Your Pucking Mom

She wasn’t mine. I didn’t know anything about her.

Be. Fucking. Cool. Her dark eyelashes fluttered as she continued to stare at me. Goddamn, she stood right in front of me.

My heart pounded in my chest, a jarring echo of the past. Like that game last year when my knee gave out. As I’d hit the ice, the numbness in my leg wreaked havoc in my body, but it was nothing compared to this moment, when I felt frozen in place over a girl I never expected to see again.

Holy shit.

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“So…” I flashed a friendly smile at the stranger. “What can I get you?”

“You,” he repeated, his gaze fixed on me.

He wanted…me?

Wait, what?

My heart started racing. Was this what it was like to be hit on? I never enjoyed being the center of attention. My hands clammed up almost instantaneously.

“I, uh…” I stammered, trying to collect myself. Emma would undoubtedly revel in this story. “Can I get you something to drink? Eat?” I motioned toward the pastry case, but his intense gaze remained steadfast.

“Sorry, do I know you?” I repeated.

I was met with more unwavering eye contact. Awkward silence ensued, accompanied by an unsettling amount of staring.

“Shit,” he muttered, the word slipping out in a low growl, causing a certain part of me to tingle with unexpected excitement.

His long, thick black hair curled at the nape of his neck, while his deep-brown beard—so dark it appeared almost black—framed his face, giving him a rugged yet warm appearance. As our eyes locked, the brown orbs staring back at me held a familiarity that left me questioning whether our paths had crossed before. The awkwardness lingered, accompanied by a subtle undercurrent of recognition.

I squinted slightly as if it might bring clarity. “Are you sure we don’t know each other from somewhere?” I asked.

His lips curved into a faint smile, a glint of amusement dancing in his brown eyes.

“It’s just that you reminded me of someone, so I was caught by surprise,” he finally said.

The air lightened as the awkwardness dissipated, leaving me intrigued.

“Oh.” I chuckled, attempting to dispel the tension. “Well, she must be beautiful, then.” It was meant in jest, but his expression remained unmoved.

“You are.”

Damn. The tension lingering in this coffee shop surpassed any I’d felt from my books. What was happening to me on this random Tuesday afternoon?

Sensations surged through my lower half. I ached for whoever this man was. Despite being single my entire adult life, this man had made me acutely aware of just how alone I was.

He shook his head, then pointed at the pastry container. “Which is your favorite?”

“Oh.” It was a simple question a lot of customers asked me, but this guy had me all flustered. “The blueberry muffin is my favorite, especially when it’s warmed.”

He nodded, the corners of his cheeks lifting into a smile. “I’ll do that, then, and a black coffee.”

“Perfect. That I can do.” The second half of that sentence was more for me than him. If he had asked for some fancy-ass espresso drink, I would’ve had to make a fool of myself yet again with the machine, then would have crawled into the biggest hole in embarrassment.

After pouring some drip coffee into a cup, I heat the blueberry muffin in the oven.

Glancing at him over my shoulder, I said, “So tell me about my doppelganger.”

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