Page 9 of Naked Coffee Guy

“He’s all yours,” I tell them, then exit the restroom, leaving their audible gasps in my wake.

I don’t confront him. I don’t even want to speak to him. As far as I’m concerned, Mac Dermot can rot in hell.

Chapter Four

Mac

She’s gone when I come back to where I left her. I hold her drink in my hand, staring at the spot she should have been.

“Hey.”

I don’t turn at the sultry voice. It’s not Maren, I know it. And when this woman’s hand snakes up my bicep, it takes all I have to not jerk away from her touch. But I do turn when she takes the drink from my hand. Of course, she’s blonde. Smoking body, evidenced by the blouse that cuts to her navel and the skintight skirt that feels like a suggestion rather than actual clothing. Flawless face with high arched eyebrows. A trendy tattoo of a bird on the inside of her wrist. The kind of girl who would eagerly warm my bed if I took her home.

She wraps her pouty lips around the straw, her blue eyes locked on mine as she sips. Then she grimaces and pushes the drink back at me.

“What is this?” Her face puckers in offense, as if she’s forgotten she’s trying to seduce me.

“Not your drink.” I turn to leave, but she grabs my arm again. This time I do shake her off.

“If it’s for that lush you were with, she took off. I think she left with some other guy.” She shrugs, then moves closer to me. “But I’m here. I’m Brittany.”

“And I’m leaving,” I say, pushing past her. I half expect her to follow, but don’t look back to find out. I ditch the drinks on a table, then head for the exit.

I know Maren didn’t leave with anyone. I shouldn’t be confident about this, but I am.

And it makes me feel like shit, because she should have left with someone else. The last thing she needs is to be with someone like me.

So maybe it’s a good thing she took off.

My car is parked in a nearby garage, a black Jaguar sedan with sleek lines and unmatched power; a newer version of a car I once saw when I was just a paycheck to a family with three other fosters. I can still remember the hunger ache in my belly, the way my pants hung loose at the waist but hit at my shins, and how that slinky car wormed its way into my appetite like a cheeseburger and a strawberry milkshake. I wanted that car—more than I wanted to escape the slap of the belt that left welts on my skin, more than I wanted to ease my unquenchable hunger as my foster parents squandered each paycheck on useless junk delivered to the house every day, and almost as much as I craved just one person I could trust.

I knew if I had that car, everything else would fall in place. And here I am. Driving the car. Living the life. Free to make my own choices.

Or am I? The mere thought makes me laugh out loud as I press the key fob, the Jaguar’s lights bouncing off the concrete walls. Even though it’s been a few years, it still feels like I’m playing a massive game of pretend. Fancy car. Fancy clothes. A watch that costs more than I used to make in a whole year.

I slide onto the leather seats, inhale the still new smell, and think of the way Maren felt in my arms. The lilac scent of her shampoo, and the hint of honeysuckle on her lips. How she didn’t pull away when I took off her shoes, pulled her to her feet, and kissed her sweet mouth.

How she didn’t recognize me, probably doesn’t even remember me, and may even forget me by the time she wakes up tomorrow. But I’ll remember, and I’ll probably continue thinking of her, just as I have over the past few years.

But I won’t contact her. I was too chicken shit to say anything when we first met, and I lost that right before the ink dried on the documents that secured the sale of those apartments.

She’s better off without me.

I pull out of the garage, taking the coastal highway that leads to my home in King’s Cove, the highest point of Sunset Bay. The gates slowly open and I pass through, my eyes on the rearview mirror as they close behind me, then back to the winding road until I reach my home on a cliff. It’s like a metaphor for my life. I’m new money, in a way. Thanks to Benji, I’ve been around it for the past twenty years, but I’m not used to having it line my pockets. Not used to the women who throw themselves at me. All it took was a decision to try something different, one hell of a lucky break, and a resolve to make it or die trying, and I suddenly have more money than I know what to do with.

This wasn’t just handed to me, though. I worked my ass off for this. I grew my brokerage from the ground up, though in a relatively short time. I made the moves that helped us surpass our competitors.

But I’m not an idiot, I couldn’t have done this without using Benji’s name—and I can’t help feeling like all I have to do is sneeze and it will all go away.

Fucking imposter.

The lights are all on, illuminated against the black exterior that blends in with the dark night sky. It’s all windows, which would make the home like a fishbowl if I had any neighbors close by. But I chose this home for the privacy, my closest neighbor about a mile from my door. I also chose it for the endless view of the ocean that makes up my entire backyard. A view I’ll never grow tired of. If this all goes away tomorrow, that’s what I’ll miss the most.

But I won’t stay here tonight. I haven’t been home in weeks, though the clean smell through the open door lets me know the housekeepers have been, keeping the vacant home free of dust because that’s what they’re paid to do. Even though no one is here to enjoy it.

I drop the bag of laundry near the front door, knowing it will be dry-cleaned and hanging in my closet by the end of tomorrow. Then I take the stairs two at a time until I reach the large room that makes up the entire second floor. I pass the Florida King bed on the way to the closet, opening the double doors and stepping inside to racks of suits, shoes lining the shelves, and an armoire with a few dozen watches, a wide variety of luxury silk ties, cufflinks, and twenty-seven different pairs of sunglasses.

I pack a few suits in a garment bag I’ve laid across my bed, then grab a few more pairs of shoes.

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