Page 1 of Then Came You

Chapter 1

Row

Have you ever had the feeling that you're in the wrong place at the wrong time? That pretty much sums up my life. Whatever the opposite of the Midas touch is, I have it.

I was the kid in primary school who sat on the sports field, minding my own business, and yet, the ball would nearly always find a way to hit me. It didn't even matter that there were hundreds of other kids lying about. Heck, you could be the kid sitting two centimetres away from me, and that ball still had a target beelined for my head.

My life is a constant battle of balancing the never-ending tightrope that is life's expenses.

Between the cost of living, groceries, rent, and the fact I live in Sydney - one of the most expensive cities in the world - I'm basically just able to get by.

I need my caffeine like an addict needs crack, and today I'm running late, so I've scrounged every last cent just so I can inhale the bitter concoction that makes it possible for me to be a fully-fledged functioning human.

I should have been prepared before I entered the line. It’s my turn and I can’t seem to hastily fish out five and ten-cent coins fast enough to pay for the small black iced coffee for the exorbitant price of $6.

And this is why I don't buy coffee.

As I count out the last dollar, I’m knocked to the side by an impatient red-head in athletic gear, causing the fistful of coins to scatter all over the floor.

I don't even have time to be mad because I'm more mortified that I'm now the one holding up the queue. Dropping to my knees, I start crawling frantically, trying to pick them up at falcon pace. I cringe when I hear people physically groan at my clumsiness, and I’m pretty sure I’m flashing my ass crack. I can hear the impossibly long line of people lining up like ants, one-by-one, mentally calculating how long it will take me to pick up every last piece, which adds to my mounting anxiety.

"Here, let me help you." A smooth voice rumbles over the groans and grunts, commanding my attention. A powerful figure dwarfs me as they join me on their hands and knees. I immediately notice veins course prominently across his tanned skin, like rivers on a map, narrating his resilience and strength. There are a few minor faint scars, which I’m sure tell a story, and his nails are short and clean.

I’m panting at my inability to find the rest of the coins that have rolled haphazardly over the floor.

I'm unprepared for the sight before me when I lift my tired and weary eyes, and big turquoise eyes greet me with a slow, sexy smile. "Let me buy your coffee for you." Oh hell, he’s sexy. His decisive gentle confidence captivates me.

He gives up the good fight of trying to find my errant money, rising to his powerful stature.

In what reality does a guy, who is utter perfection and walking porn, want to buy me, Row Atkins, coffee?

I look like an experiment gone wrong in my baggy black harem pants and salon tee that's tied in a knot at the front and sporting bleach stains all over it. The worst part is my fairy-floss-coloured hair. It's bunched up on top of my head in a sloppy bun. I'm sure if there were birds flying around in here, they'd mistake it for a nest.

Surely, this gentleman is only offering me a cuppa out of pity.

I momentarily forget he's said something as I take in the gorgeousness that is his face. Fine lines crinkle at the corner of his eyes, alluring me to ask him what sort of life he’s lived.

He's older than me by a decent decade or more, if his slightly greying at the temples is anything to go by, and he's yummy in the sort of way that you wonder exactly what a man like him would taste like.

I rake my eyes over his towering build. He's wearing cream-coloured chinos, a white shirt with a couple of buttons undone, and a tailored navy blazer with a little gold horse on it, which tells me it's Ralph Lauren. His belt and shoes are brown tweed and match, and he smells delicious, from the notes of aftershave I can detect.

"Come on, I'll help you up." He extends his arm toward me. I stare at his outstretched hand, noticing a tattoo stains his wrist. It peeks out from his shirt, hinting that his perfectly put together persona is not as clear and cut as it seems.

This mystery of a man just got about ten million degrees hotter in my books. Tatts on a scrumptious man? Well, you can just go ahead and fuck me right now. Apart from the intricate designs on his wrist, he looks like a complete goody-two-shoes from a well-bred family. If anything, the tattoos confuse me because it just doesn't match up with what's on the outside.

I reach for his hand. "Thanks," I murmur, clasping mine in his and pulling myself up.

"My fingers inadvertently close around his, making me jolt at the contact. I can feel his gaze spear mine. Sparks continue shooting up my right arm at his touch. Goddamn, he's fine.

Even the smallest touch of his hand on mine tells me he'd know just how to use them on other parts of my body.

I mentally kick myself for not putting in effort this morning.

His palm lingers in my hand longer than what is appropriate, but I don't give a damn.

Not. A. Damn. At. All.

"What would you like?" He gestures to the counter, pulling his hand away and shoving them into his pocket. I immediately miss the contact of his skin.

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