Page 29 of I Can't Even

My friends had warned me for years that I would slowly turn into a crazy cat lady, but so far I had just the two finicky felines and only because I’d found them abandoned. I still traveled, brunched with friends, and maintained a solid rapport with my neighborhood shop owners. The librarian at my branch library adored me and we had weekly chats about books that usually tripled my to-be-read pile, so it wasn’t like I was agoraphobic. I was just at peace by myself and navigated the world quite well as a solo unit.

That said, since I’d come home, I was aware that something was missing in my life. It had been a really, really long time, meaning well over a year, since my last relationship and I missed sex. There, I said it. I missed it. I wanted it. And not surprisingly I knew exactly with whom I wanted it.

Babs had spent the time after my father’s death alone—seventeen long years with no dates, boyfriends, or significant others to squire her around. She had chosen instead to hunker down and find her companionship in her daughters, mostly Em.

There was nothing wrong with that, I supposed, except I wanted more out of life and it hit me like a slap upside the head that if I didn’t get my butt back out there, I stood a very real chance of becoming the bossy older sister Em was searching for to guide her life. No, thank you.

My pulse raced and I needed to get out of this house. I needed the sun on my face, the wind in my hair, and the smell of the sea in my nose. Fifteen minutes later, I had my laptop in its bag in the front basket of my old beach cruiser bicycle, and I was on my way to Liam’s Coffee Shop. He could avoid me next door, sure, but he couldn’t ignore me as a paying customer. At least, I hoped he couldn’t. If the man tossed me out on my keister there wasn’t much I could do about it, but I was betting that he wouldn’t...although given our past the odds were not in my favor.

I wound my way down the hill, the Pacific’s strong breeze wreaking havoc with my crazy brown curls, toward our quaint little town below. It was hard to believe that this was the first time I’d ventured out since I’d arrived. There had been so much happening, I hadn’t really had a chance before now. All of the old shops still circled the small green which was anchored by a Methodist church on one end and a Jewish synagogue on the other.

I pedaled past the card shop, the bakery, where I almost stopped, the florist, the bookstore, almost stopped again, the shoe repair place—really, how did old man Mancusi stay in business—

the pizza joint, and finally I turned at the corner and found myself in front of Liam’s Coffee Shop.

My heart was pounding so hard that I was pretty sure it was determined to slam right out of my chest, and suddenly the term “ribcage” had a whole new meaning for me. It felt as if my ribs were the only thing keeping my unruly heart from staging a prison break.

“Keep it cool,” I muttered to myself as I locked up my bike. “Keep your freak in check. You’re just here to get coffee, no big deal.”

At that moment, I almost climbed right back onto my bike and headed for home, but the road back was all uphill and I really wanted a cup of coffee, okay, that was a lie. I desperately wanted to see Liam again. Like a worm in my head the idea just kept burrowing deeper and deeper into my gray matter until it was entrenched. There would be no leaving the center of town until I got my fix.

I slung my laptop case over my shoulder and entered the shop in what I hoped was a casual way. Bells hanging on the door handle chimed, announcing my arrival. No one noticed.

The place was bigger on the inside than it appeared from outside. Two baristas were behind the counter in front of me, but the shop then opened into a large L shape. Most of the tables were full and there were shelves of tchotchkes for sale strategically placed to relieve customers of their hard-earned money.

At the far end of the L was a small stage and a chalkboard over it announced that a band called Yuma Beach would be performing that night. Cool. The surf theme was prevalent throughout the shop with surfboards hanging from the ceiling and fastened to the walls. The decor reminded me of the endless hours spent surfing with Liam which were some of the best memories of my life.

I ordered the largest latte they had while scanning the joint for a glimpse of said boy. There was no sign of Liam. I tried to squash my disappointment. According to my sisters, the man owned three of these places. It had been a long shot at best that he would be here instead of one of his other locations.

There was a small table in the corner and I headed toward it, thinking I could at least get some work done while I was here. While my laptop booted up, I took the opportunity to people watch. Typical So Cal crowd: an older, sun-weathered hippie couple that smelled faintly of patchouli, two wannabe celebutantes dressed in micro-minis and chunky boots with their boob jobs fully on display in their mid-drift baring halter tops, a pasty pale balding businessman in a snappy suit talking on his cell phone—seriously, get some sun, dude—and a middle-aged Black guy in baggy shorts, a polo shirt, and a golf visor.

Then there was the guy in aviator glasses who took a seat at a table two over from me with thick blond hair revealed by a partially lowered navy hoodie, reading a newspaper. Well, more accurately, he was skimming the sports page while watching me over the top of his shades.

I studied his face. Maybe thirty, with a firm jawline. He was too young to be an acquaintance of Babs but might be a friend of Soph, although I didn’t recognize him. Hmm. Could be he wasn’t staring at me but looking past me to see outside. Then again, it was totally possible that my hair had reached all new levels of poof and now resembled a big brown cloud that he couldn’t tear his gaze from. I couldn’t fault him for that.

I checked my reflection in the black mirror that was my cell phone. Yeah, the hair was decidedly bushy but not enough so that it would encourage staring. I thought about calling him out on his rudesby behavior, but that would mean I had to engage, and I didn’t care enough for that sort of scene.

Instead, I opened my email and began to triage my client’s requests. Some were urgent, some were not, and some were the whining of high maintenance clients who thought “miracle worker” was part of my job description as their webpage designer. Lucky me.

I started stomping out fires and as always once the issues were crushed into piles of smoking ash, I had lost all sense of where I was and how much time had passed. A prickle of awareness brought my attention from my laptop. Figuring it was the hoodie guy, I glanced over at his table only to find it occupied by an elderly couple playing Scrabble.

Huh. Still, I felt someone’s eyes on me. I turned my head and scanned the coffee shop more thoroughly and there he was. Standing just inside the door, with his wetsuit unzipped and riding his hips, his surfboard held by one arm, his hair slicked back with sea water, and his exposed skin a deep sun-kissed bronze. Oh, my Liam.

His baristas greeted him by name, and he gave them a tight nod. Without looking at anyone but me, Liam propped his board against the wall and then he was striding forward right to my table with barely contained fury. Uh oh.

Chapter Ten

Saltwater dripped off the ends of his shaggy dark hair. Normally, I would have jumped up to protect my laptop, but I sat rooted to the spot, unable to speak under the intensity of Liam’s gaze. His jaw was clenched, his nostrils flared, and his fingers flexed. I briefly wondered if he was trying to keep from wrapping them around my throat and strangling me.

Without saying a word, he picked up my laptop, tucked it under his arm, and turned away from the table. What? Huh? Crap! Nothing like taking a girl’s livelihood to make her snap out of her stupor.

“Hey! Wait,” I protested to his back.

He didn’t slow down but continued across the coffee shop toward a narrow wooden door tucked into the wall. Given no choice, I snatched up my empty laptop bag and hurried after him.

I pushed through the small door into an office—his, I assumed. It had a large desk with a bookcase behind it, surf art on the walls, and a window with a view of the narrow alley between his building and the one next door.

He stood by his desk with his hands on his hips.

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