Page 97 of Run For Me
I nearly throw up when I pull up in the cafe parking lot. When I get to my feet, I’m dizzy and I’m grateful for the cool air.
The cafe is dark inside, with dim lighting. Records and framed band posters cover the midnight blue walls. “Interstate Love Song” by Stone Temple Pilots plays over the speakers, and I glance at the menu that has grunge album themed drinks.
Amelia and I came here a few times, and I love the atmosphere. It’s the sort of place I could spend more time in, and I probably should. A place like this is where I could make friends, find people I have things in common with.
Caffeine is a bad idea. The last thing I need is something to make me more jittery, but if I sit down, it’ll be weird having nothing. So I get in line and look over the menu.
“Hey, what can I get you?” the barista asks. He has blue spikey hair and a nose ring. He’s tall, with a fitted faded Melvins shirt.
“I’ll take an iced dirty chai, please,” I say, pulling my card from my pocket. It’s a chai latte with a “dirty” punch of espresso and two pumps of brown sugar syrup.
“Great choice,” the guy comments as he writes it on the cup and then punches it into the computer screen. I swipe my cardwhen he tells me to, and I move down to the end and wait for my drink.
Each time I’ve been here before, it’s been busier than right now. But it’s later in the day. I keep looking over my shoulder, worried Jaxon is going to walk in at an awkward time, like when I’m taking a sip. I’d choke when I get a look at him.
“Here you go,” the barista says, sliding the drink my way.
“Thank you.”
I grab a straw and hurry to a table toward the back. I punch the straw through the hole and take a quick sip. It’s the best one I’ve had from here so far.
“Possum Kingdom” by the Toadies starts up, and I pull out my phone to make sure Jaxon didn’t cancel. There are no texts on my phone, but I swipe through notifications to clear them. I’m just finishing deleting my spam emails when I feel it.
Feel him. My heart skips a beat and my mouth goes dry. I blink a few times, keeping my gaze on my phone but so badly wanting to look at him.
I feel him watching me and know without a doubt he’s there. So before I can get too in my head about it, I look up.
Everything around me fades. Everything but him.
He’s here, standing right in front of me. No mask. No helmet. Just him.
And his gorgeous face.
Short cropped hair. Piercing blue eyes.
He stands there in a black thermal that clings to his body the way I want to. The curve of his biceps stands out, and I think of the times I held onto them. His shoulders are wide, chest defined, down to his narrow waist. I shouldn’t think about his dick, but even from here, I can make out the bulge in his jeans.
I know this is him without him having to say a damn word. It’s the way he looks at me, with such intensity that I want to crawlinto a hole and hide. Yet, at the same time, all I want to do is stay here and let him look at me like this all day. Forever.
I’ve never felt so seen.
He smirks. Those perfect, full and soft lips of his quirk up on one side, and I just about die. My heart skips, my chest tightens, my brain misfires. Seizure. Stroke. Heart attack. All of it.
Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think this would work out?
“Can I sit down?” he asks.
Those words coming out of that mouth… good lord, if this works out, will I ever get over acting like this?
All I can do is nod.
He takes the few steps toward the table, then pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. He leans forward, resting his thick forearms on the table, that smirk still on his lips. His eyes shine with mischief and humor.
Jaxon is the kind of guy that knows he’s hot. He’s the kind of guy who gets a woman with the snap of his fingers. He’s the kind of guy that I should not get involved with. Too late, I guess. Because I am so involved.
I should say something, but I can’t get my mouth to work. Hell, my brain is hardly working. All I can do is think in words, though mostly it’s just one with a handful of synonyms. Hot. Sexy. Gorgeous. I can’t even string together a sentence. Out of my league is the closest I get to that.
“Are you disappointed?” he asks, a perfectly shaped dark brow raising.
