Page 26 of Hate You Later
I look down at my own outfit, feeling underdressed.
I’m surprised that this man is so openly flirting with me. My combat boots, tattoos, hand-knit, black tunic, and tiny nose ring usually tend to ward off the more affluent, polished, corporate types. Why me? Shouldn’t he be out hunting for a trophy wife? Some lulu lemon-wearing, Gucci purse-carrying, Range Rover-driving type who will hang on his every word and book reservations for them both at all the right restaurants?
I am not that girl, I think. That is not my comfort zone. But what exactly is my zone, then?
I recall my recent virtual “date” with Oliver. That had felt totally comfortable. I am a SpaghettiOs, on-the-couch kind of girl.
Ragnar leans across the counter to take my business card and adds it to his bag. I notice that he also smells really good. So good. Woodsy. Clean. Sexy. Oh, wow. I’d seriously like another hit of that. I want to inhale him deeply and savor that smell.
But what I really need is to hear him speak some more so I can figure out if he really is that dude from the other night. As if there is really any question. My body is already telling me he is. I am having the exact same, totally uncharacteristic reaction to his nearness. It’s like I’m turning into a werewolf, and he is a big, juicy steak. This isn’t normal.
I take a step back. I need to extricate myself from this situation before my hormones and brain conspire to make me even crazier. I can’t afford to have these kinds of feelings. Ragnar is fire. A fantasy, for sure. But only that. And probably, my reaction is due to how long it’s been since I’ve hooked up with anyone. Maybe Kenna is right. Maybe I just need to get laid. I can feel my heart thumping and try to put the thought of wrestling with Ragnar out of my mind. Way far out.
The problem is, now that he’s in there, I can’t seem to evict him. It’s like he, and he alone, is fully occupying the lust apartment in my imagination. Shit. I can’t handle IRL Ragnar. He’s too much. He is the polar opposite of no drama.
Perhaps I can go back to wondering what Oliver’s owner might be like? As ridiculous a notion as that seems, it feels a whole lot safer.
I hold out Ragnar’s bag and he takes it, his fingers grazing mine. No shock this time, just a compelling warmth I’d like to lean into.
“That diner next door any good?” he asks. “I could use some coffee …”
“Um … yep, sure is. It’s the best,” I say, shoving his change at him now. I have to get this guy out of here—and fast—before I lose my last scrap of sanity.
“Can I grab anything for you?” He raises his eyebrows, and his eyes glint mischievously, inviting me to engage in this dance. I am tempted, so tempted, even though I know it probably would never work. I know I need to resist. Even if it’s just sex. Looking at him, I have the uncanny feeling that a one-night stand with him wouldn’t be enough. I’d want more. Much more.
Shut that down now, Georgia!
Emotional attachments, even far-out, fantastical, potential ones, are a luxury I cannot afford right now. I can’t afford to open my heart up again just yet. Or possibly ever. But certainly not when I’ve already leveraged myself to the hilt in order to save the people, places, and things I already love. More emotional attachments = more risk.
There’s too much at stake with the store, the shelter, and my house to even indulge in this fantasy for a second longer.
My hands drift to the pawprint constellation tattoo on my left wrist, and I rub it absentmindedly, a habit I’ve had for years when I’m nervous.
He’s still waiting for me to answer his coffee offer.
“No, thanks.” I smile blandly, retreating into a robotic shopkeeper persona. “I’m good.”
“Okay, if you say so,” he says. He looks a little disappointed but recovers quickly. “Thanks for
the help here.” He holds up the bag and waves before ducking out the door. “See you around!”
And then he’s gone.
The bell’s tinkle seems to reverberate in the air for a moment before everything becomes still again. I’m not sure if the lights are suddenly dimmer or if I’m imagining it. Perhaps the sun has just slipped behind the clouds.
Thirty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a flurry of incoming texts.
So … what did you think? Tell me everything!Kenna says.
About what?
About the MAN, Georgia. The tall, sexy, Viking man who was just in your shop!
Oh. You saw Ragnar?
He just left the diner. That’s not his real name, btw.
I don’t know his name. I just call him Ragnar in my head.I admit.
