Page 3 of Hot in the City
Beth endured a few more minutes of mindless chatter, then Jenny left in a flurry of air kisses and dah-lings, with a promise to meet soon. Beth didn’t commit to anything.
Then, Samuel’s gaze was on her again. Time slowed to the pace of thick caramel syrup dripping off the back of a spoon as Samuel sauntered across the floor to her table.
She stood and met his eyes, tilted her head upwards. They were only centimetres apart, a hand’s breadth. It would be so easy to reach out and touch him.
“Did your friend like the place?” Samuel asked.
“I think so.” She paused to suck in much needed oxygen. Her heart wobbled now he was here, standing so close. Making her want things. “Sorry she’s a bit loud. A bit much in general, sometimes.”
“Don’t apologise. I wasn’t offended.” He paused and looked her straight in the eye, but only for a second. Then his gaze dropped to his feet. “Did she like today’s poem?”
“I don’t know. But I did, I always do. Who writes them?”
Samuel studied the floor, then took a deep breath that made his chest expand. He peeked up underneath long black eyelashes. “It’s a secret. The poet prefers it that way.”
Before she could respond, or even find her voice, he’d picked up her bag and passed it to her. Standing so close, she inhaled the scent of his skin – woody, intense, spiced with cinnamon. Their fingers brushed, quickly. Softly. Only a moment. But somehow it was one of life’s big moments. At least it was for her.
Her heart stopped mid-thump, her blood flowed slowly, languidly, her eyelids hit half-mast. Heat flooded her belly and settled between her thighs. Her whole body screamed, ‘Take me to bed!’ but he was already gone.
Back behind the counter, making coffee, serving customers. He barely noticed when she dropped her money by the register and left.
Wednesday
A touch
A taste
A tease
A torment
When she entered the café that afternoon, the bell rang with its jaunty jingle. But there was another pretty sound. Samuel’s voice floated and echoed across the tiled room towards her. An old Michael Hutchence song about precious hearts and two worlds colliding.
Heaven on a stick.
His voice was liquid sugar, sweet and smooth, but overflowing with pure sensuality. He had it. Charisma, sex appeal, animal magnetism. Whatever it was, that some singers and movie stars had. Samuel had it and a bit. And it hit her right in the ovaries.
A voice like that, combined with his body, it wasn’t fair. It was like he was there just to taunt and tempt her.
She sidled up to the counter, achingly aware of every inch of her skin as he hit a high note. “That song’s a bit old for you to remember, isn’t it?”
Samuel shook his head, wiping down the countertop at the same time. “It’s a classic. How old do you think I am exactly?”
“I don’t know, twenty-four, twenty-five, maybe?”
He smiled, flashing white teeth and a killer dimple. “I’m glad I’ve still got it. I’m thirty-two.”
Her mouth formed a silent ‘O’. Only six years younger. She shouldn’t think about it. Shouldn’t get her hopes up. He was still too young. But not embarrassingly young. Perfect for a woman who’d always liked younger men. Until a certain ex-husband proved to be a boy in a man’s body, juvenile and self-centred.
“Still, young and handsome and with a stunning voice. Not old and decrepit like me.”
“Thanks, but ... decrepit?” His gaze strolled a lazy path from her eyes to her nude lips, detoured at the low neckline of her black t-shirt and down her red mini skirt to her exposed legs. “You look absolutely fine from where I’m standing.”
Oh, holy hell. She was about to spontaneously combust right in front of him. Somehow she found her voice, even if it was breathier than usual. That was pretty breathy. “Thanks, that’s um, nice to know.”
Nice. Nice? She deserved his laughter, but damn if his low, throaty chuckle didn’t just continue the chain reaction inside her. He’d said he found her attractive, hadn’t he? Something like that. She backed away and headed for the refuge of her usual table. Putting distance between them.
She sat and crossed her legs to one side, conscious suddenly that he might be watching her. Grabbing her notebook and pen, she settled down to write. Swirling thoughts of kissing, touching—a gorgeous man singing—derailed her current story. But the ideas were good, worth saving for later.
