Page 10 of Man of the Month Club: May
I make a quick pit stop in the bathroom. He delivers last night’s dress to the door for me to put on. When I head out to the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee greets me, so I pause to breathe it in as he pours me the first cup.
He has pulled on some loose gray sweatpants that showcase the tiny, delectable indentations at his hips. As he hands me the steaming mug, he asks, “Did you sleep okay?”
I blow on the tasty brew before saying, “Let the magic beans do their work before you speak to me.”
He smiles and nods before pouring himself a cup. I take my first sip of the delicious black coffee and let the heat spread through my veins before admitting, “Some days I’m tempted to skip the cup and drink directly from the pot.”
After he runs a hand through his adorably sleep-rumpled hair, he says, “You’re even more addicted to this stuff than I am. I didn’t think that was possible.”
“It’s what keeps me going all day in the studio,” I tell him.
He swallows the first drink from his mug. In a curious tone, he asks me, “What kind of art do you do?”
“Stained glass,” I answer quickly. Deciding that response is a bit abrupt, I add, “That medium allows me to release my anger by breaking things, then I get to force the shards to morph together into something beautiful.”
“Sounds perfect for you,” he weighs in using a thoughtful tone. Quickly changing gears and pushing off the counter to walk away, he says, “Make yourself at home. I need to go shower for work. I’ll drop you off at your car on my way to the office. I should still be able to make it on time.”
He glances down at his phone to confirm before hurrying down the hallway. Unwilling to admit how miffed I am that he didn’t invite me into his shower, I mutter quietly to myself, “Great, I’ll just sit here and wait, then.”
When he returns to the kitchen, a delectable, masculine scent wafts into the room in his wake. He is wearing a dark gray suit, his hair is damp, and his face is clean-shaven. I’d like to see how smooth it would feel against my skin, but he ruins that idea by asking, “Ready to go?”
I’d been half-expecting him to offer to make me a hot breakfast––or at least toast––so his urgency to get rid of me is a bit jarring. Trying not to show my hurt feelings, I grab my purse and say, “Oh, okay. Sure.”
Seeming to sense that he’s been too abrupt, he says, “Sorry, but I don’t want to be late for work. I can’t stand running behind.”
“Yet another thing we don’t have in common. I don’t really pay much attention to time.” I give him a sad smile as I realize that we truly are opposites in every way.
Once we’re settled in his car, I glance down and do a double-take before saying, “Nice socks.”
Last night, I’d thought perhaps his colorful socks were a fluke or something special for his Man of the Month Club debut, but the smiling bright yellow bananas peeking out between the hem of his gray slacks and dress shoes this morning make it obvious that this is a deliberate style choice.
He turns to grin at me as he starts the car, seeming pleased that I have noticed. “My investment firm job is so boring, I needed to find some small way to bring some levity into it. I have three drawers full of outlandish and fun statement socks.”
“Living on the edge,” I quip. Despite my sarcastic comment, I grin down at my lap as I think how charming it is that he’s obviously so proud of his ‘wild’ streak.
Once he backs out of his driveway and wheels the car onto his street, he points out the beautiful home next door and says, “Beau Wallace, the Indy race car driver lives there.”
“Really?” I ask with more enthusiasm in my tone than I intend. Impressed despite myself, I try not to gush as I add, “He seems like such a great guy whenever he does television interviews. I was devastated when I saw he had that bad accident at last year’s Indy 500.”
“Yeah, that was really scary watching him hit the wall. He had gotten me tickets for the race, so I was at the track.” His voice has taken on a somber tone, but it brightens when he adds, “It’s been almost a year, though, and he’s doing surprisingly well––considering the circumstances. He got really lucky.”
I shake my head as I say, “I can’t believe your next-door neighbor istheBeau Wallace.”
He nods and angles a quick smile in my direction before saying, “He’s a great neighbor, except he has a tendency to speed on our little side streets.”
I chuckle as I picture the racer trying to abide by the luxurious neighborhood’s ironic 14 ½ mile per hour speed limit signs.
Silence settles over the car as we drive toward the bar’s parking lot, until Cooper asks me, “What is your family like?”
I’d been hoping to avoid this topic, but since he asked, I’m blatantly honest with my answer. “It’s really just me and my mom. She had me at a very young age, so she thinks I ruined her life. We don’t have much of a relationship.”
I leave out the fact that her hatred of me is the main reason I’m so wildly insecure about personal relationships. It’s been ingrained into my personality from an early age not to believe that anyone can truly love me, so I end up pushing people away before they try to get close.
The one exception to that is my best friend, Daphne. Somehow, she has been able to break down my walls, and I let her in. It’s probably because she is so pure and loving that my heart knows there is no way she could ever hurt me. But she’s the only person I trust like that.
Part of me wonders if I might someday be able to trust Cooper enough to let him inside, but the mere idea of it makes my heart hammer in my chest. It would be easier to keep him at a safe distance until we see if we both want to pursue a relationship with each other.
All too soon, we pull into the nearly empty parking lot.
