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Chapter One

I’d been waiting for my crush to show up at the café all day, even though I didn’t admit it to myself. Then the bell over the café door jingled, and he stepped through. And there he was at last, in my face. Mr. Tall, Dark and Hyper-focused.

I stepped behind the dessert display case, seizing the opportunity ogle him from over the pecan fudge brownies and under the Napoleon pastries. Looking at that man gave me such a rush. It was dumb, childish, embarrassing, inappropriate. I was making my own self cringe. But the rush was impossible to resist. At least right now.

I had to have that little buzz. It was the only thing that even momentarily eased the dull ache in my middle. I’d been carrying that heavy feeling around ever since my world imploded a few weeks ago with my mother’s death. Maybe I would be carrying it forever. Always dragging those tight, forced, shallow breaths into that cramped, burning space around my bruised heart. No respite from it, ever.

At least not until I saw Mr. Tall, Dark and Hyper-Focused. The first moment I laid eyes on him for the first time a few weeks ago, I got an effervescent rush through my body. It lasted only the time it took for the guy to order, eat his lunch, pay up, and go, so not very long. But oh, it was such sweet relief. Even for that brief interval.

The sickening awareness of what had happened to Lucia, my adopted mother, was never far from me. The home invasion, the alleged heart attack. Violence, fear, loss, it was always right there. Just pushed a little bit to the back so I could function in the world. More or less. I could dress a salad, pour coffee, bus plates.

But when my crush walked out the door, grief slammed me back down even harder than before, as if to punish me for trying to evade it.

He checked to see if his usual table by the window was free, which it almost always was. Today was no exception. The lunch rush was over by the time he arrived; three-fifteen, regular as clockwork. That gave me a buzzy little hum of hopeful anticipation to carry me along for all the hours of my shift that came before. Yay, me. Win-win.

He took off his jacket, tossed it on the chair, and seated himself. Then he pulled out a laptop, opened it, and set to work with all the grim concentration of a power drill.

For weeks he’d been here, every damn day. And ever since the first day, I’d been working all the lunch shifts, even though I would earn more tips with the dinner shifts, whenever I could schedule them around my teaching schedule.

But no. Broke and busted as I was, that fleeting rush I got from seeing Mr. Hyper-Focused was worth more to me than a pocketful of tips. How freaking silly and sad was that, considering that the man was oblivious to my very exis­tence.

I took my glasses off and swiftly polished them on my apron. The better to see you with, my dear. I perched them back onto my nose and fished the order I’d just taken out of my short-term memory before it disappeared into the churning abyss, and promptly dished up ratatouille for the table of women underneath the aquarium, gawking at my crush all the while. I shot quick, surreptitious glances as I drizzled vinaigrette with a practiced flick of my wrist, and tossed grated beets and roasted pumpkin seeds on their salads.

I loaded the tray and chose a path through the restaurant that brought me right past his table, close enough to smell the detergent his crisp white shirt was washed in. The next pass was to refill the water glasses. That run made me conclude that he had asked his dry-cleaner to put extra starch into his collars and cuffs. Another sneaky run through the tables with the coffee pot garnered me a greedy whiff of his aftershave. Mmm, nice. Woodsy, notes of citrus. And those shoulders. Flaring out, so broad and thick and solid-looking. I wondered what it would feel like to sink my nails into them.

He wasn’t movie-star beefcake hand­some, not with that rough, angular face, those deep-set, laser-sharp dark eyes, but something about him just got to me. I had studied his fea­tures, reviewing them over and over in my daydreams and sexual fantasies.

His face was rugged. Olive skin, that big, bladelike nose with the crooked bump on it, the black, slashing eyebrows set at a sharp upward angle. His cheeks were lean, with grooves flanking his mouth, and he had crinkled lines around his eyes, as if he’d squinted into the desert sun for a long time. His mouth was flat and unsmiling, his black hair was cut short, and it stuck up wildly every which way.

The resulting look worked for me. No way would that guy affect such spiky, messy hair on purpose. He could not be both­ered with such petty considerations. He did not give a rat’s ass if anyone was looking at him. He didn’t care about his hair. For some random reason, that was a turn-on for me. Go figure.

I dared a peek at his computer screen from behind his broad, mus­cular back. I could make out his prodigious muscle definition even through the fine cotton of his dress shirt. The screen was thick with code. Which was all Greek to me, besides being none of my damn business. I walked away, chin up, resolute. Mature. Ignoring him.

After one last, hungry peek.

Behind the counter, my boss, Norma, looked over from the marinated mush­rooms she was grilling with a smile. “He’s here again, eh, Nelly?” she said. “Can’t get enough of that strip steak sandwich, I see. Before I lose you in a romantic daze, honey, I need to ask a favor.”

Oh, God. My crush was that obvious? I grabbed the bread knife and began slicing. “Ask away,” I said grimly.

“Easy does it, hon. Don’t maim yourself. Couldn’t help but notice that you never take your eyes off the fellow. Can’t say I really blame you. He’s definitely a hottie. Those big, thick shoulders, mmm. If I were twenty-five years younger … hell, maybe even just fifteen …” Her voice trailed off, a teasing gleam in her eyes.

I was too mortified to be a good sport today. I just kept slicing bread.

“Workaholic, though,” Norma went on in a musing tone. “Always tappity-tapping away, never a glance for the cute little waitress serving him. You’re wasted on him sweetheart. Take it from an ex­pert. Leave that guy alone. He’d be good for nothing but a bunch of plate-throwing arguments about emotional availability. And believe me—I know whereof I speak.”

“Thanks for the advice.” I apportioned the sliced bread into a bunch of baskets. “But I don’t need it. I’m not getting anywhere near him, or any other man. Believe me. I have enough drama in my life these days. Any more would break me.”

“Whatever you say, honey. Hey, are you free to work an evening shift? Kendra just called in sick. Again. That girl’s driving me crazy. Always at death’s door.”

I gave her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry, Norma, but I’m teaching a discussion section tonight for the American poetry course.”

Norma clucked her tongue. “I was afraid of that. Oh well. We’ll be shorthanded, but we’ll sur­vive. Maybe I can get Pete to come in, if he’s between boyfriends. Go on, get some coffee for that hardworking fellow before he starts feeling put upon. Do you absolutely have to wear those glasses, Nelly?”

I snatched the glasses in question off my nose and polished them again, defensively. “Unless you want me to bump into tables, yes! What’s wrong with my glasses?”

“They just make you look so, I don’t know. Bookish, I guess.”

“Norma, I’ve got news for you. I am bookish! To the marrow of my bones! It’s my most defining personality trait!”

“Aww, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. Your eyes are so big and brown and pretty, I just want the world to see them.” Norma tucked a hank of curly black hair from behind my ear so that it dangled ticklishly around my chin and proceeded to tug down the front of my apron to show a little more of my chest. “For God’s sake, Nelly. Youth is wasted on the young. Go on, scram! Get the man’s order!”

I poured out the cup of black coffee that he always wanted and scurried out with my order pad, self-consciously tugging my sunset-tinted apron bib back up over my cleavage, annoyed and agitated. Norma was very old school when it came to directives on mating behavior. She was also an immensely kind woman and a really good boss. I was lucky to have found her, and I knew she meant well, so I couldn’t get huffy with her for crossing the line. Besides, I got too fluttery to stay mad when I took Mr. Hyper-Focused’s order anyway. God alone knew why. We’d never so much as made eye contact. I could take his lunch order stark naked, and he would never notice.

I placed his coffee on the table. Without shifting his eyes from the screen, he reached for it and took a sip. “Thanks,” he said, in that deep, resonant voice that made me go all shivery and stupid. “The usual, please.”

“Okay.” I concentrated fiercely on keeping my voice from going breathy and high-pitched. “We have three soups today: chicken noodle, French onion, and three bean. Which would you prefer?”

A small frown furrowed his forehead, but he didn’t look up. “I don’t care. You pick.”

“Okay. One bowl of I-don’t-care, coming right up.” I stared, almost transfixed, at the cowlick at the crown of his head. A wild, spiky vortex. There was raffish stubble on his tense-looking jaw. His starch-stiffened cuffs were turned up, revealing tough, ropy muscles and black hair that lay flat and silky against the golden skin of his forearms.

“Is there a problem?” His voice was distant, but his fingers still tapping that constant, rapid-fire staccato.

“Um, no. Of course not.” I fled, flustered, jamming my hip into a nearby table edge.

Ouch. I suppressed yelp of pain. Crap. The bruise that would show up tomorrow would serve as a stern reminder of what happened when one gave in to adolescent urges. Cripes, even Norma had noticed my condition. I’d let this silly crush get way out of hand.

I put the order in and began assembling his lunch. Norma glanced over with professional interest. “The usual, I assume?” she asked.

“Unsurprisingly.” I popped a roll into the toaster grill, and scooped an enormous serving of Knorma’s Knockout Coleslaw onto a small plate.

“You’re ruining me with those portions, hon. Trust me. The fella’s not worth it.”

“Give it a rest, Norma,” I snapped, arranging the thick slices of tomato, radish rosebuds and carrot curlicues onto his plate. I tossed on a handful of alfalfa sprouts, hesitated for the barest instant, and cut a substantial slice of sweet onion. I added it with a flourish, since his breath was neither my responsibility nor my problem. I scooped some oven-roasted rosemary potatoes onto the plate. Then added a few more.

The toaster pinged, and I pulled out the roll, still avoiding Norma’s gaze.

“What soup did he want?” Norma inquired.

“He doesn’t care. I’ll give him the three-bean. It’s good today.”

“Really? I don’t know, hon. Chicken might be safer. You know … gas?”

I snorted as I ladled his bowl full of soup. “He can learn to express a goddamn prefer­ence if he doesn’t like it.” I hefted the tray, and the soup slopped dangerously near the edges of the bowl.

“Easy does it, Nelly. He’s not going anywhere without his lunch.”

I gave her a withering look and carried out his soup.

When I brought out the rest of Mr. Hyper-Focused’s lunch, the only place to put the sandwich plate was the extreme edge of the table, which looked precarious. He hadn’t even touched the soup yet. His big hands chattered cease­lessly on the keyboard. I had to hand it to the guy. Nothing distracted him. It seemed almost pathological.

“That’ll be all.” His voice was cool and distant.

I backed away, still staring. I’d been summarily dismissed. Now that I had brought his sustenance, like a silent and dutiful handmaiden, the time had come to melt silently and unobtrusively into the walls. God forbid I disturb the grand master at his important work.

His refusal to look at me was really bugging me today. I was getting genuinely pissy about it. I headed back to the kitchen, mentally ticking off the various issues I meant to cover in tonight’s discussion section on Emily Dickinson’s poetry. The plight of women in nineteenth-century America. Powerlessness. Arid celibacy. Secret, unrequited love. Constraint. Corsets. The life of the imagination. Agonizing sexual frustration.

Things could always be worse. And yet, this reflection did not comfort me.

“Did everything go smoothly?” The smile in Norma’s voice drove me nuts.

“Smooth as silk.” I loaded ice water on a tray, marched past Norma with my chin up, and tripped over the edge of the plastic mat.

Crash. Glass broke, heads turned, water sloshed and spread, ice cubes rolled.

I took a breath to contemplate the extent of the damage, then got the dustpan and started picking up glass shards and ice cubes. Eyes down, mouth tight.

“Nelly. Honey.” Norma put her hands on her substan­tial hips, her eyes full of dismay. “You have got get out more.”

“Norma, I am in no mood for a lecture,” I said, through gritted teeth. “My sis­ter was almost murdered by a slobbering maniac. I’m short my rent because of all the lost work afterward. My thesis adviser is on my case night and day to get damn thing finished. I can’t get any sleep. And Lucia … oh, God. Just let me be, okay?”

My face was dissolving. Norma tugged me up to my feet and wrapped me in a big, smothering hug. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. What happened to Lucia was so shocking and horrible for you girls. I didn’t mean to stress you out. And your sister getting attacked was really scary, but things have worked out, am I right? She’s got that big, nice, tough-looking guy looking after her now, and he’s down for watching her like a hawk day and night, so things seem to be calming down a bit. I’m sure that if Lucia would want you to have some fun, move on with your life! You know she would!”

I put my glasses back on, sniffling fiercely. “I’m not in the mood for fun, Norma, no matter what Lucia might have wanted. And I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t have time for this lecture, either. I need to get dessert for table six, table eight needs their check, and Monica is taking another cigarette break.”

“Yes, yes. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything. But truthfully? I’m glad to see you taking a healthy interest in a likely looking man. All in all, that’s a good sign.”

I grunted something bad-tempered in response to that, and headed out to dump broken glass into the trash. I had to struggle to compose myself to go out on the floor once again. My eyes were red and puffy, but who cared? Mr. Hyper-Focused would never notice. When I refilled his coffee, I asked, “Care for dessert?” I was just throwing it out there, because what the hell. If the sky fell, I would barely notice.

“The usual,” he said flatly. Not looking at me.

I hesitated for a moment, then let ‘er rip. “Are you sure you don’t want to try something new? We have fresh strawberry shortcake on sweet hot butter biscuits today, and the pecan fudge brownies are wonderful, too. Served with whipped cream.”

His hands froze over the keyboard. “I’m sure they’re all good. Give me the usual.” ‘And no back talk’ was the subtext. He was impatient with me. Huh. That alone was more attention that I’d gotten from him thus far in the past several weeks.

I sighed, and went to get him his goddamn apple crumb pie with vanilla ice cream.

As always, when he finished, he closed his laptop, dropped bills on the table that covered the check as well as a very generous tip, and left without a backward look. The guy had the imagination of a cement block. And the manners of a molting snake.

To hell with him. I was embarrassed for myself. Crushing out on a meat-headed, insensible, uncurious, indifferent, soulless, gearhead dweeb.

At least he tipped well, so there was hope for him as a human being.

The rest of the shift was a tired blur. I helped Norma start the dinner prep, and went to the bathroom to freshen up before going uptown to my discus­sion section. I took off my glasses, leaned close to the mirror, and squinted at myself. A critical onceover.

Norma was right. The round glasses were very eighteenth-century. I think I’d been going for a Brontë sister vibe when I picked them out, but it was not a look that flattered me in the third millennium. And my long, thick unstyled mop of black, curly hair was juvenile and nondescript and dowdy. And very heavy.

I twisted my hair up into a knot, letting curly wisps fall down around my ears and jaw. Marginally better, but I didn’t have the technology to make it stay up there. My eyes were my best feature. They were big and dark, with long lashes and thick eyebrows that I had to pluck regularly, or else they did a coup d’etat and took over my whole face. A nice mouth, I conceded, if a little large for my jaw. Norma and Monica kept nudging me to wear lipstick, but I always ended up wiping it off whenever I tried it. All that bright red, ka-boom. My lips, taking over my face. It literally scared me.

I should be braver with lipstick. And maybe try con­tact lenses. And do something to my hair.

Most importantly, I should get my ass moving, or be late to my discussion group.

I splashed water on my face, hefted my heavy shoulder bag, and headed for the downtown bus. Why stress over my looks? What difference did it make? Who cared?

I had more pressing things to worry about … like staying out of the clutches of our nemesis, who Nancy had named Snake Eyes.

And who knew if I could pull that off.

End of Excerpt