2
1301 Words
I count in my head the last time I had s*x.
Or at least I try.
Two years? Three years? Was it that one time in January when I spent a night in the city? How long ago was that even? What was that chick’s name again?
The woman in front of me shifts, one hip popping out, full ass rounding out her skinny jeans in a way that should be illegal. The under-cheek crease is almost as alluring as the swing of her copper hair as it swishes across her slender back.
She’s distracting. Tight shirt tucked into tight jeans. Every f*****g curve on display.
I lose count entirely. It’s the sight of her in front of me in line for coffee that has me counting anyway.
The takeaway here is I had s*x so far back now that I don’t even remember. But there’s no forgetting why I haven’t even let myself consider members of the opposite s*x.
A kid I’m raising on my own. A ranch I’m running on my own. A million responsibilities. Too little time. Not enough sleep.
Time for myself hasn’t been a thing for a long time. I just didn’t realize how long.
“What can I get you, ma’am?”
The woman in front of me laughs, and it reminds me of the chimes on my back porch when the wind dances through them—melodic and airy sounding.
What a laugh.
It’s a laugh I’d recognize. I’ve definitely never met this woman. I’d remember it because I know everyone in Chestnut Springs.
“Ma’am? I don’t know how I feel about that,” she says, and I swear I can hear the smile in her voice. I wonder if her lips match the rest of her.
Ellen, who runs Le Pamplemousse, the little gourmet coffee shop in town, smiles at her. “Well, what would you have me call you? I usually recognize every face that walks in my door, but not yours.”
Ah, it’s not just me. I lean forward a little, hoping to catch the name. But one worker chooses this exact moment to grind coffee. Which just makes me grind my teeth.
I don’t know why I want to know this woman’s name. I just do. I’m from a small town, I’m allowed to be snoopy. And that’s all this is.
When the grinding noise stops, Ellen’s wrinkled face lights up. “What a pretty name.”
“Thank you,” the woman in front of me replies, before adding, “How come this place is called The Grapefruit?”
Ellen barks out her amusement and grins from her side of the counter. “I told my husband I wanted to name the shop something that sounded fancy. Something French. He said the only thing he knows how to say in French is le pamplemousse. It seemed good enough to me and now it’s like a little running joke between us.” Her eyes soften at the mention of her husband, and I feel a flicker of envy inside of my chest.
Followed by a flicker of annoyance.
The only reason I haven’t grumbled about their slow-as-f**k chitchat is because I’m too busy fighting off a public b***r over this chick’s laugh. Under normal circumstances, it would piss me off that grabbing a coffee is taking this damn long. I told my dad I’d be back to grab Luke—I check my watch—right about now. I need to get back so I can meet with Summer and the person who will hopefully be Luke’s nanny.
But my mind is wandering in ways I haven’t let it in literal years. So maybe I’m meant to just enjoy the ride. Maybe it’s okay to let myself feel something.
“I’ll grab a medium, extra hot, no foam, half sweet . . .” My eyes subtly roll back in my head as I tip the brim of my black hat down. Of course, the outsider with the rocking body must have an annoyingly long and complicated drink order.
“That’ll be three dollars and seventy-five cents,” Ellen says, eyes fixed on the cash register’s touch screen in front of her while the woman at the till digs through her oversized purse, clearly searching for her wallet.
“Oh s**t,” she mutters, and from the corner of my eye, I see something fall from her purse to the polished concrete floor at her sandal-clad feet.
Without even thinking about it, I drop into a crouch and swipe the black fabric off the floor. I see her legs turning and rise back up.
“Here you go,” I say, my voice all gravel as a shot of nerves hits me. Talking to strange women isn’t a well-honed skill of mine.
Scowling at them? I’m a professional.
“Oh my god,” she says.
Standing now, I get a good look at her face. My feet root to the ground, and my lungs stop working. Her laugh has nothing on her face. Cat-like eyes, arched brows, and milky skin.
She’s f*****g stunning.
And her cheeks are fire-engine red.
“I’m so sorry,” she gasps, hand falling across her rosebud lips.
“No need. It’s fine,” I say, but I still feel like everything is happening in slow motion. I’m having a hard time catching up, still too fixated on her face.
And f**k.
Her t**s.
I’m officially a creepy old man. My eyes trail down to my fist, the soft fabric poking out from between my fingers.
She groans as my fingers unfurl. And slowly but surely, I figure out why she’s acting so horrified over me being a gentleman and picking up her . . .
Panties.
I stare at the scrap of black fabric in my hand, and it’s like everything around us goes blurry. My eyes shoot to hers, all wide and green. So many shades. A mosaic.
I’m not known for smiling, but the corners of my mouth twitch. “You, uh, dropped your panties, ma’am.”
A strangled giggle bursts from her as her gaze darts to my hand and back to my face. “Wow. This is awkward. I’m really—”
“Your coffee is ready, sweetheart!” Ellen calls.
The redhead’s face flips away, relieved by the interruption. “Thank you!” she calls back a little too brightly before slapping a five down on the counter and grabbing the paper cup. Without another glance, she’s making a beeline for the door. Like she can’t get away fast enough. “Keep the change! See you again!”
I swear I hear her giggling under her breath as she breezes past, clearly avoiding my gaze while murmuring something to herself about this being a good story to tell her kids one day.
I absently wonder what the hell kind of stories this woman plans on telling her future children before I call out to her. “You forgot your . . .” I trail off because I refuse to shout this across the coffee shop full of people I have to face day in, day out.
She turns and presses her back into the door as she leaves, holding my eyes for a beat, barely contained amusement touching every feature. “Finders keepers,” she says with a shrug.
Now, she does laugh, full and warm and so damn amused. Then she exits into the sunlit street, hair shining like fire and hips swinging like she owns this town.
She leaves me stunned.
And when I glance back down at my open palm, it hits me she’s long gone. I have no idea what her name is, and I’m still here . . .
Holding her panties.
- Writer
