“Can I walk you out?” Hot Guy asks and picks up my coffee. “And your hands look kind of full.”

I’m smiling and nodding before I can get any logical words out. “Sure, thanks.”

“I still want to make it up to you.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I really should go and get this over with.”

He laughs. “Hopefully this guy takes it easy on you. Tell him some idiot ran into you and it’s not your fault.”

“I’ll say just that.” My heart flutters when he pushes the door open for me. “That’s me,” I say, motioning to my red Malibu parked right outside the door. I set the brownie and phone on the roof and open the door.

“Sorry again, Felicity,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you here again. I pretty much live on coffee.”

“Me too. Well, coffee and wine,” I say and laugh at myself. Did I really just say that? Why not tell him that the wine is drunk out of a plastic Butter Beer mug while Ser Pounce circles my feet? 

“Both are essential,” he says and hands me my drink. “Good luck with the asshole client.”

“Thanks, I’ll probably need it.” My eyes flick to the gallery across the street. “This day can’t get much worse, can it?”

“Let’s hope not.” He lets his eyes run over me, slowly, deliberately. He wants me to know he’s checking me out … and liking what he’s seeing.

Holy shit.

I’m fairly confident only this guy can make a coffee shop parking lot an erotic experience. I’m blushing as I turn to get into the car. I close the door and pull my shirt up, untucking it from my skirt. I undo the buttons and yank it off. It’s way too stained and wet to wear. I toss my head back against the seat. What the fuck should I do?

I sigh and hang the shirt on the passenger seat, hoping it might dry if I blast it with the A.C. I look at the clock.

I’m now fifteen minutes late. I put the car in reverse, realize that my phone and brownie are on the hood, and frantically grab them. Then I high-tail it across the street. I get out, get my purse, and gather my composure, catching my reflection in my window. If only I’d worn any other shirt under my blouse than this … Whatever. R2D2 is awesome.

My heart skips a beat. I lean against the door of my car, taking a few minutes to text Erin and calm down. Plus I need to process Hot Guy.

What is wrong with me? I should have flirted back, right? Maybe asked for his name at least? Oh well. I’ll never see him again. I shake my head when I realize that I’ve wasted another five minutes. Now I’m twenty minutes late.

I fluff my hair, take a deep breath—I smell like coffee, though I say that’s not a bad thing—and push my shoulders back. It is what it is. I’m going to go in, set this shit up, then get the hell out of dodge.

I grab my work bag from the back, heft it up over my shoulder, and hold my head up as I walk into the gallery. Mindy looks up when the door opens. Her eyebrows go up as she takes in my Star Wars tank top. It’s form fitting with a scoop neck, showing more of my tits than is appropriate.

“I’m ready to get started,” I say, cutting right to the chase.

“Uh, okay,” she says, blinking back her shock. “I’ll let Ben know you’re here.”

“Thanks.” I set the bag down on her desk, eyeballing the sleek computer that takes the place of the old dinosaur that sat in its place a few days ago. Mindy gets up, repulsion of my fashion choice clear on her face. She’s looking good again today in a cream suit, hair in loose waves pinned back by shiny barrettes. Her makeup is flawless. Seriously, people have skin that even and clear?

Maybe she had some sort of procedure done. I doubt it. I’m sure my tainted high school memories glorified her a bit, my teenage mind thinking her better than she really is, but I’m pretty sure her skin had always been that way. Mine isn’t particularly bad, but I don’t look like a centerfold come to life.

Her heels click on the hardwood floor and she disappears into the gallery. Two of the paintings from Monday are gone, making the entrance look bare. I didn’t doubt the talent of this Ben guy, but I doubted the price tags. Not being into art or anything classy like that, I had no idea what the going rate was for a custom piece like that, though.

I click my nails on the desk as I wait, disliking this Ben guy even more as each minute ticks by. Finally, Mindy trots back to her desk.

“He’ll be right down. You can start with his computer. He’s busy, you know. You should hurry so he can get to work.”

I swallow the retort that’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll hurry because I want out of here, not because Ben-Diva needs his precious time.

“Sure,” I say and take another breath. A door opens and closes from inside the gallery, and I hear heavy footfalls come downstairs. Ben rounds the corner and it’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop onto the floor. Color rushes to my cheeks.

Son of a bitch.

It’s worse than any Shyamalan twist: Asshole, little-miss-diva Ben is the hot guy from the coffee shop.

CHAPTER FIVE

We stare at each other, neither speaking, for several beats. Mindy looks back and forth, not following our expressions of abhorrence.

“Felicity,” Ben finally says and his eyes settle on my breasts. “Nice outfit choice.”

“Some idiot ran into me and it’s not my fault,” I say back. “Ben.”

“You two know each other?” Mindy asks.

“Yes,” Ben says the same time I say “No.” Ben clears his throat. “Why don’t you get started,” he says to me. “I’d hate for that asshole client to get upset.”

I purse my lips together and glare at him. Then I blink, grab my bag, and hurry past Mindy. We go to the center of the gallery and up a flight of wooden stairs that have been painted black.

My pulse is pounding, and I can’t take my eyes off of Ben’s ass as he ascends the stairs in front of me. It’s so perfect and tight. A quarter would bounce right off that thing. There is a door at the top of the stairs that creaks open. The smell of paint and clay hits me hard.

“Close the door,” Ben says and I just know he’s going to yell at me and call my boss or something of the like. He turns around and crosses his arms. He’s grinning. “You’re not the fat, ugly nerd I was told was coming to install the new computers and fix the website.”

“And you might not be the asshole client I thought you were.”

“Just might not be?”

I lift my left shoulder in a shrug but can hardly move it under the weight of the bag. “I don’t know you yet. You can at least tell what I look like in a second flat.”

“That is true,” he says and runs a hand through his hair. He leans against an L-shaped desk that’s cluttered with books and messy stacks of paper. “Why do you think I’m an asshole?”

I swallow, trying to will the blood rush to leave my cheeks. “The way Mindy talked about you. You sounded like a high-maintenance diva, to be honest.”

His face brightens as he smiles again. Then he raises an eyebrow. “You know Mindy?”

Crap. I could lie, right?

“I mean,” he continues. “She saw you, and you’re clearly not fat or ugly.” His eyes do one more sweep of my body. “Not at all. So why would she lie?”

“She’s sadistic?” I offer, voice going high pitched.

Ben tips his head like he’s studying me. “She is, but not that much.”

“We went to high school together,” I admit and am surprised by the relief I feel in saying that. “And we weren’t friends.”

“What, were you the popular hot girl and she wasn’t?”

I let out a snort—yes, and actual snort—of laughter and give Ben a “what the fuck are you smoking?” look.

“Other way around?” he asks like it can’t be true.

I put my hand to my chest, meaning to draw attention to the giant R2D2 on my shirt as if that proves my point. “Very much so.”

“Because you like Star Trek?”

I blink and look down at my shirt. Nope. I just … can’t. I shake my head and stare at him with wide eyes. The adrenaline is wearing off and things are feeling more and more awkward. I wave my hand in the air.