Page 8 of She Was Made for Me

“Oh,” she says, flustered. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Hey, we’ve all had bad weeks. Let me make yours a little better.”

She hesitates, gaze resting on my face. I rub a hand self-consciously across my unruly beard. For the first time in years, I find myself wishing I’d shaved this morning, maybe done a little more than pull on a dirty work shirt and shoved a cap on my head.

“That’s really sweet.” Her mouth lifts into a smile that sends warmth rippling through my chest. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt in a long time, and it makes me want to flirt with this beautiful young creature in front of me. It makes me momentarily forget I’m not the young man I used to be.

“Well, I’m averysweet guy.” This time I earn a laugh, and fuck, that feels good. Before I can get too carried away, I ask again, “What were you drinking?”

“Triple shot Americano. Thank you.”

“Whoa. That’s an intense coffee order.” I say it without thinking, and am relieved when she laughs again.

“Yeah, I need that much caffeine to function.”

I remember a time when I needed that much caffeine too—I was working around the clock and ignoring all the signals my body was giving me to STOP.

“Case in point,” she adds, motioning to the mess beside us, which is currently being mopped up by a brunette barista with a nametag reading ‘Daisy.’

I grin. “Fair enough.” I head back to the counter and order her another coffee, hoping I’ll get the chance to talk to her again, even for a few minutes.

When I turn back she’s still standing by the wall, reading the framed information. It’s a history of the neighborhood, surrounded by modern, artistic photographs that focus on the architectural details of the old buildings.

“This is so interesting,” she says when I reach her side again, and I take this as an invitation to continue the conversation.

“Yeah. There’s a lot of history in this area.”

“I didn’t know Brooklyn Heights was America’s first suburb,” she utters in astonishment.

I nod. “The ferry meant that people could live here and work in Manhattan. Hard to believe it was all farms and orchards around here before that.”

She lifts her eyebrows. Impressed? I can’t tell. God, she’s pretty.

“I grew up a block away,” I mumble, pulling my cap off and raking a hand through my hair in a futile attempt to tidy myself up. “You’re not from around here?”

“I’m a New Yorker, but…” She gives a shamefaced little laugh. “I don’t know this area well.” She turns back to look at the images on the wall and continues. “I was reading about how many buildings they tore down before this became a protected historic district. That’s devastating. I love the old buildings. Such a shame to see that history lost.”

There’s a funny flip in my ribcage. Historical building preservation is something I’ve always been passionate about, especially growing up in this area. I’ve never met a woman who cares about that too.

“It is,” I agree, wondering how insane it would be if I asked for her number. She must be a good decade younger than me.

My order is called from the counter. She lifts a single brow when I claim my decaf cappuccino, then turns back to the wall. Someone who consumes three shots of caffeine in one drink probably won’t understand that a single shot of the stuff makes me agitated and jittery.

I hover near the sugar stand, wondering if I could get away with hanging around to talk to her some more. I might be a little late meeting Rich, but I’m sure he’d understand. He’s been urging me to get back out there for ages.

The barista saves me from my nervous dithering by calling out her order, and I swoop in to pick it up and hand it to her. I cringe at myself as I reach her side again.

Play it cool, man.

“Your coffee, madam.”

Nice one.

I tug the brim of my cap down to hide my embarrassment. Fuck, it’s painful watching myself attempt to flirt.

But she laughs again, taking me by surprise. “Why thank you, kind sir.”

I glance at her, my mouth pulling into a wide grin.

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