In fact, Mr. Delicious suited him quite well.
He was saying goodbye to the other men, so I had to be quick about my approach. I smoothed my dress, combed my hands through my curls and headed his way. He was about to leave the table, and I felt an immediate rush of urgency wave over me, like it was my only chance. So, I brushed past him, letting my hand linger on his shoulder for a couple seconds longer than necessary. It was a total stalker move, but holy shit, his back muscles? Incredible. I couldn’t bring myself to just barely touch him. I had to get a good feel.
After my attack, I stepped around him and made a beeline for the bar—my decoy mission. Rylie’s voice broke through the blood pounding in my ears—Mr. Delicious literally made my heart beat faster. As if the night wasn’t overwhelming enough, he summoned me on stage to sing. Crap wagon, I could have killed him.
All I remember thinking before stepping on stage was how miserably I failed at my plan to blend in for the night.
I didn’t let my mind process the hundreds of people. I just stepped on stage, and as soon as the spotlight hit me, my passion again was ignited.
I sat behind the piano and played my heart out for the one set of eyes that captivated me as soon as they looked my way.
I hadn’t performed on stage since high school. Rylie constantly asked me to sing with him, but I refused every single time. I couldn’t bring myself to walk up on that stage and bare my soul. But, knowing that this compete stranger was out there, watching, made me bold.
You know the rest. I sang for the one man I thought I’d never see again, but, you know what? I felt okay about it. Honestly, I did something daring last night. I sang a badass song to a beautiful man. He may have not known it, but I do, and I’m proud of myself.
Running into Duane? Well, that was just plain luck.
After I walked off stage, I looked to Rylie, who gave me a prideful thumbs-up. He knew performing was a big deal to me. But as soon as I was done, that was it. The feelings that the song brought out in me made it difficult to handle all of the people bombarding me afterward.
I needed air. The song’s title, “Haunted,” was definitely a metaphor for my past. I’ve never once performed it in public, so I needed a minute to wind down, to cool the intensity I felt.
I was outside, my back against the wall, slowly breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth when I spotted some old man, talking gibberish in the parking lot. I wasn’t equipped for a run in with a crazy man. My mace was in my purse, in the bar, not on me.
I’m an idiot.
I decided to haul ass back into the safety of the bar.
Keeping my head down, I ran smack against the sexy wall that was Duane. I could have closed my eyes and thanked God at that very minute. I think I might have. Just hearing his smooth, deep voice was enough to tide me over for the rest of my life, and that southern drawl turned my insides to mush.
He was a sweet, southern gentleman. I mean, he called me Darlin’. I loved that. Sure, men have said that to me before, I live in friggin’ Tennessee for goodness sake, but the way it rolled off his tongue…oh my God. I squeezed my legs together to keep from orgasiming right then and there.
God, that sounds awful, doesn’t it?
I couldn’t bring myself to ask for his number, so that’s that. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. Stupid, empty bed.
So you’re caught up. Amazing night, regret in the morning. Just not the way random meetings at bars usually give a girl regret, I didn’t even get a kiss out of it.
Lame.
Now, it’s seven in the morning and I’ve arranged for Liv to run the shop because I’m meeting up with a lawyer to discuss my Dad’s case. After my dream a few days ago I can’t seem to shake the feeling that maybe the investigators missed something. It can’t hurt, right?
It struck me odd that the receptionist at the law firm didn’t confirm any specific person for the meeting, but I figure they come highly recommended, so I was lucky to even get an appointment.
I get out of my stupid, literal empty bed and head to the bathroom. After a shower, I decide to blow out my hair and pin it up with pieces hanging around my face. I look like I made an effort, but really I just pinned until my hair looked presentable. My hair sometimes has a mind of its own, but today it wants to cooperate. A bit of mascara, bronzer and lip gloss and I’m ready to go.
It’s the end of summer, but it’s still crazy hot during the day, so I throw on a pair of khaki shorts, a yellow tank top and flats.
Thanks to my cooperative locks, I have time to spare. The meeting isn’t till nine.
Liv is nursing a very big cup of coffee when I walk into the living room. I smile and shake my head. The woman thinks she can drink like a man. She can’t.
“How are you feeling, buttercup?” I sarcastically coo at her. She hates that specific term of endearment. She prefers dillweed and I’m always happy to oblige.
In typical Liv fashion, she flips me off and leans her head on the back of the couch. “Shut it, woman. And don’t talk so loud.”
I snicker at her and go to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee. Actually, let me rephrase, Liv doesn’t consider my morning ritual coffee. She calls it scared coffee. Yes, you read that right,
scared
coffee. I put more creamer in my cup than coffee. I can’t help it; coffee is too bitter without tons of creamer, at least in my opinion. So, I pour myself a cup of scared coffee and sit next to Liv on the couch.
Patting her leg, I smile. “Really, are you okay? Do you need me to re-schedule my appointment?” I hate seeing her sick and suffering.
She laughs and side hugs me. “No, I’m alright. Nothing a bit of my cure-all won’t fix.”
My stomach churns at the mention of that nasty-ass remedy. It tastes like death. I never drink my body’s limit of alcohol unless I can nurse a hangover the next day. I refuse to drink that mud. So gross.
I shudder and Liv smirks. “It’s not that bad.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “Says you. You drink your coffee black. Disgusting.”
She rolls her eyes and sips her coffee. “Yummm.”
I fake gag.
“Alright, alright, I need to get ready. You gonna come down to the shop after your meeting with the lawyer?”
I nod. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
She tips her head in acknowledgement, and heads up the stairs to her room. Closing the door behind her, I’m left all alone, again.
No nightmare last night, which means I dreamt about Mr. Delicious.
All. Night. Long.
I won’t even go into detail, because just thinking about the steamy details makes me blush. It’s so unlike me to have these feelings. I don’t feel like me so much, this morning. I’ve been so closed off for the past seven years, I hardly recognize myself.
I kind of like this new me. She isn’t so afraid.
Time passes quickly as I make myself breakfast and catch up on my current novel. Liv heads to the shop, looking more chipper than before. She must have taken the cure-all sludge. Before I know it, my doorbell chimes. Setting my book down, I glance at myself in the mirror hanging on the wall over the couch. I look fine. Not great, but fine. It’ll do.
I pull myself away from my reflection and open the door.
WRONG! So, so wrong…
I should have worn a damn ball gown, because who is standing at my door?
Duane.
Freaking beautiful-hazel-eyed, perfect-bodied, Mr. Delicious, Duane.
My jaw drops to the ground so fast, I swear he heard it.
He smiles and runs his hand through his hair, seeming perplexed. He was expecting me as much as I was expecting him.
That’s a relief.
I compose my stunned expression, but can’t bring myself to smile. I’m sort of disappointed. Seeing him here means he’s off limits.
He’s my lawyer. Stupid fate, you suck ass.
My life officially sucks.
The pull between us is electric. I feel it instantly when I meet his eyes. It’s almost tangible. I find myself wanting to hurl myself into his body, and curl up, possibly never to leave.
God, I need to get a grip.
Who am I?
A pod-person, obviously.
His eyes flash sadness, but he recovers, giving me a smile that pulls out emotions I haven’t felt since Kyle.
“Ann,” he says. “Small world.”
There’s that sexy low voice. I close my eyes and store the sound in my mind, hoping that I’ll be able to hear it long after he’s gone.
I open my eyes. “I’ll say. You’re my lawyer?” I ask.
Clearly he is. He’s wearing a tailored suit that fits perfectly to his body. It’s a charcoal color that brings out his already hypnotizing eyes. With a fitted white shirt and striking red tie, he looks very lawyer-like.
I lick my lips, and tug my bottom lip into my mouth imagining all the things I want to do with that tie. It’s a very different look than what he was wearing last night. I don’t know which one I like better.
He clears his throat and grins, snapping me out of my haze. Oops. I need to quit staring so much.
Good thing for me and my pride, he plays my oogling off, and offers a sincere look on his beautiful face. “May I come in?”
Into my room? Sure can.
I squash that thought away.
Seriously, Ann, who the hell are you?
I return his warm smile and let him in. “We can sit at the table. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee?”
He scrunches his nose. “No coffee, but water would be great. Thank you.”
A man after my own heart. Another point for Duane. I nod my head and retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge.
He gives a sweet smile and thanks me. Taking the seat across the table from him, I study his smile. His perfectly straight, white teeth only add to his striking features.
“Alright, well since there is no need for introductions, let’s get to it.” He begins opening his satchel.
“Wait, wait.” I hold my hands up in a silly manner. “I don’t know your last name. What kind of operation are you running here?” I joke.
He snaps his head up and looks at me intently, searching my face. For what, I don’t know.
My smile falters and I feel like a jerk.
He clears his throat again. “I’m sorry. My last name is Rynard,” he says as he quickly pulls out a bunch of papers and his laptop.
I roll his name off my tongue. “Duane Rynard.” God, it feels delectable in my mouth.
Damn, even that sounded sexual.
Get it together, Ann, this is so not like you.
Staring at me, he seems to be taking inventory of my every feature, studying me. You’d think it would make me uncomfortable, but all it does is put me at ease. I want him to notice me. God, I’ve never wanted anyone to notice me as much as I want HIM to notice me. Really see me. No one has looked at me like this in a very long time.
Then, I realize, out of nowhere—causing me to almost choke on my own breath.
They have the same kind eyes.
Not the color—but the same gentleness—the same magic.
My eyes begin to water, and I look away. I can’t think about
him
right now.
Breaking his trance, he shuffles his transcripts around. Either he didn’t see my slip up, or he decided to let me act like a crazy in peace.
“I’ve looked at the notes, and your father’s case is still considered open, but I’m seeing holes in the investigation. Can you tell me what happened?”
I tell my story, for what seems like the hundredth time in my life, to Duane. I tell him about my dad’s odd personality the last few months of his life, how he was constantly paranoid, and always on edge thinking someone was watching him. He even went so far as to seal himself in his house for a few weeks, never coming out or interacting with anyone. All business was done over the phone and computer.
His co-workers constantly harassed me about his erratic behavior. I didn’t know what to tell them. I was still a senior in high school; I had other things on my mind. I passed his odd behavior off as being stressed, I didn’t know any better.
One day, after his three-week hiatus, he decided he needed to get some work done at the office. I didn’t think anything of it. I came home later that day and found him in the basement.
I was told he committed suicide.
Duane’s eyes shine with horrific concern. “Jesus Christ, Ann. I’m so sorry.”
I wipe an escaped tear, and nod a thanks.
“But, I’m confused,” he continues on. “Your dad thought someone was following him? It doesn’t say that anywhere in the report.” His eyes cloud with frustration as he shifts through his stack of papers once more, trying to find some answers.
My head snaps up.
Wait, what?
Worked up, my voice goes up a few octaves. “What? Are you serious? I’ve told this story so many times I could recite it word for word. In my sleep, Duane. How is it possible there isn’t anything in that file about him being followed?”
Duane takes my hand and squeezes it to calm me.