AllFreeNovel
Share Us
CHAPTER TWO
Erica
The steam from my latte whispers secrets just before I send it flying across the table. "Shit!" It's like slow motion, hot liquid spreading a map of chaos over the white surface, seeping toward innocent bystanders in the form of scones and smartphones.
"Here, let me help with that." The voice is deep, calm amidst my personal espresso hurricane. I look up, and holy fuck. Who is this guy? He’s all muscled and buff and he has these piercing blue eyes that are locked onto mine as if he's assessing a battlefield. Is he military? He looks military. But instead of a soldier's command, he offers a white napkin, his movements deft, sure.
"Thanks," I murmur, cheeks blazing hotter than the spilled drink. My heart thuds, not from the embarrassment, but from the closeness of him—this guy who looks like he could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders without breaking a sweat. His hands, large and capable, work alongside mine to blot the coffee flood, his fingers brushing against mine with subtle intention.
"Looks like your coffee tried to make a break for it, huh?" he quips, a corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that ignites something reckless inside me. His touch is light, careful, not missing a beat or a drop of the rogue brew.
"Damn, you've got a reflex like a cat," I say, half-laughing despite the disaster in front of me. His quick hands are already sweeping up the last of my latte from the table, his grin easy and infectious.
"Only when it comes to saving beautiful women from the tyranny of rogue coffee," he responds, the teasing note in his voice drawing a reluctant smile from my lips.
I can't help but feel a rush of warmth at his words—not just from the compliment, but also from his willingness to dive into the fray with me. "I'm usually not this clumsy, I swear."
"Don't worry about it," he says, tossing the soaked napkins onto the growing pile. "It gives character to the place. Plus, now we have an epic tale of bravery and sacrifice to tell our grandkids."
His joke has me barking out a laugh, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet café. "Our grandkids? You move fast considering I don’t even know your name."
“Brandon,” he gives me a full smile. “And you are?”
“Erica,” I tell him.
Brandon.
"And I only move this fast when I see something—or someone—I like." His eyes twinkle with mirth, and there's an edge of sincerity beneath his playful words that sends a tingle through me.
"Is that so?" I tilt my head, intrigued by the twist in our conversation. "Well, thank you for the save...again."
"Anytime," he says, and the simple word carries a promise that knots my stomach with a mix of nerves and excitement. The mess is all but forgotten as we stand there, the air between us charged with something new, something with potential.
"Guess I owe you one now," I add, biting my lip as I consider him. There's a depth to Brandon I hadn't noticed before, a gentleness that contradicts his rugged exterior.
"Consider it a freebie," he counters, "but if you insist on repaying me, I wouldn't say no to grabbing dinner with you."
The forwardness of his invitation catches me off guard, but the eager flutter in my chest tells me I'm not opposed to the idea.
Not at all.
* * *
I slide into the booth, the warmth of the dimly lit restaurant wrapping around us like a cozy blanket. A soft melody plays in the background, just loud enough to soothe without drowning out conversation. The table is set with candles flickering in the draft, their dance reflecting in Brandon's eyes as he watches me across the table.
"Is it just me or did we step into someone's living room?" I quip, glancing around at the plush cushions and intimate spaces between tables.
"Only if your living room serves a five-star beef wellington," he retorts, humor sparkling in his gaze.
Our laughter mingles and fades as a waiter sets down plates of steaming food, the aromas mingling and rising to greet our senses. Brandon's steak is cooked to perfection, its savory scent making my mouth water. My pasta, a tangle of freshly made noodles and rich sauce, beckons with a promise of comfort.
"This looks amazing," I say, twirling my fork through the pasta.
"Yes, it does," he agrees, but he’s not even looking at his steak as he cuts it.
He’s looking at me.
My heart does this funny flip in my chest.
