Page 30 of Chasing Storm
After having a really lazy last day at home, I return to civilisation five days after getting the flu, feeling great and refreshed. All I did yesterday was sleep and actually rest while sleeping, and I’m ready to face the world and work, again.
Deciding that I deserve a fancy coffee, I head out after getting dressed. I chose my ballet flats again and black pants with a fitted black shirt. It looks a bit chilly out, with a strong breeze, so I throw on a lightweight black coat before leaving for work.
On the lookout for dogs who want to trip me, cute brooding douches who want to kiss me, and wankers who want to yell at me, I cautiously slip into the coffee shop, breathing in deeply with a smile.
Making my way to the counter, I weave through the tables and then freeze as I feel eyes boring into my back.
The scent of hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream hits my nose in a vigorous wave of deliciousness. It makes me want to change my order so I can taste this against my tongue and feel the sweetness slide down my throat.
I make the mistake of turning my head to the right to see Thatcher Sinclair standing right behind me, to-go cup in hand crammed with tiny mallow pillows.
He stares at me, his expression filled with surprise, longing and something fierce and lustful.
I quickly snap my head back to face the front and drum my fingers on the counter impatiently, ordering a black coffee so that I can taste the bitterness and not have to crave the sweet deliciousness that is now clawing at me.
Dammit.
Why did I come in here? I should’ve stayed clear. I should’ve known something like this would happen after last time. I thought all I had to fear was an overzealous dog, a guy who can kiss me so my knees go weak, and a delicious smelling prick who yells at me.
I didn’t count on the stealth dick of the group. The one I’ve barely even spoken to before, never mind kissed or dumped coffee on. Bad me for forgetting about him. I recall he was there at the coffee-throwing games, but he was still half-cut from the brief glance I gave him. I figured he wasn’t a credible threat. Not like his buddy, the illustrious Jonathan-Pierce, who can smell blood in the water from a mile away.
So I hear.
“Thanks,” I murmur when the gorgeous barista hands it to me with a knicker-melting smile and grazes of his fingers over mine.
I raise an eyebrow and give him a sexy smile back, enjoying this bit of flirting. It’s taking my mind off the imminent problem of exiting the coffee shop past the group ninja.
“Anytime,” the barista says, his accent so fucking sexy, I want to climb his hot bod like a tree and see if that heady, dark coffee smell is coming from him or the machines behind him. “Storm,” he adds in a way that makes me choke on my saliva. He points to his name tag. “Franco.”
“Hi, Franco,” I breathe like an idiot, getting lost in his dark eyes.
“Are you free later, Storm?”
I blink and splutter, feeling my cheeks heat up. “Uhm…”
“There’s this cute little bar down the road. Seven o’clock?”
Wow. Okay. He is forceful. And hot. And so fucking sexy.
“Sure,” I say, deciding what the fuck. I’m free and single, ready to mingle and all that. Why not with the super-hot barista who says my name in a way that makes me think of rolling thunder and flashes of lightning, with rain pounding down around us as we get drenched, locked in a kiss that heats us up?
I frown at the low snarl I hear behind me. Franco glances over my shoulder, having heard it as well.
His eyes narrow. “Boyfriend?”
I shake my head, mortified. What is Thatcher doing? He can’t be snarling at me, surely?
“Jealous man. You sure he’s not yours?”
“Not mine,” I grit out, pushed into a corner and having my decision made for me. “I’ll see you at seven.”
He smiles seductively, and I feel that drinks might not be the only thing on the menu. I turn and stride out of the coffee shop quickly, not trusting myself to say another word to Franco, and needing to get out of the suddenly stifling atmosphere caused by Thatcher Sinclair with a cloud over his head.
I’m several paces down the pavement when I hear my name.
“Storm.”
I turn and then really wish I’d carried on walking. “What?”
