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Chapter one
Wifey
Alfie
Every little boy dreams of the moment he sees his future wife for the first time. When he looks at a literal angel and hears that sure voice in his head that says, without a shadow of a doubt, “I’m going to marry that woman one day.”
When I pulled off a random freeway exit last night before I fell asleep at the wheel, I never expected to wake up and meet my future wife. Before starting another day on the road, I decided to stop at a coffee trailer on a gravel patio next to a bookstore.
Jasmine vines climb the wooden fence, and the tables are covered by large oak trees offering cool shade. It looked like a nice enough place to sit while I decide where to go next on my no-plan road trip. But as soon as I step up to the window to order, I know there is no fucking way I’m going anywhere.
The perfection on the other side is jaw-dropping, boner-inducing, eye-fucking gorgeous. Everything from her round, full cheeks with a slight pink flush to her cascading blonde hair and button nose.
She looks at me, and I swear to God, the heavens split open. Her lips move, but I can’t hear what she says over the sound of golden harps played by chubby babies with quivers of heart-shaped arrows slung over their backs.
I shake my head to get rid of the twinkling, angelic sounds when she speaks again from behind the counter of the seafoam green trailer. “What can I get you?”
“Marry me.” For fuck sake’s—it just slipped out!
Luckily, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed and blares their horn behind me on the street.
She laughs, the sound brighter than a fucking supernova. “Sorry, what was that?” she asks, and I realize she has a British accent.
“Uh . . .” My mouth dries up as a wisp of her blonde hair gets swept up in the wind. Realizing that I’m just standing here mute and love struck only makes me more nervous, which in turn makes me even more tongue-tied. My phone vibrates in my pocket, tugging me from my stupor. “Pumpkin spice latte, iced, please.” I want to pat myself on the back when I manage to place my order without dropping another marriage proposal.
“You’re about three months early . . .” She frowns apologetically.
Because I bribe the coffee shop next to my work, June Bug Café, to stock pumpkin spice year-round, I forget most places don’t. I’m about to order something else when she holds up her finger and dips down behind the counter.
A few seconds later, she pops back up with a grin. “I can make an iced dirty chai latte with vanilla and extra cinnamon, and it will be a decent placeholder.”
“Sounds great,” I rasp, and I’m pretty sure I would say the same thing if she offered to whip together dog shit and rotten eggs. She smiles with a nod and my heart stutters.
“Dairy gives me the runs!” I blurt out.
She freezes, her dark cerulean eyes widening, lips parted, speechless. There’s a whooshing in my ears as I process the words that just left my mouth. I just told the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen that milk makes me all but shit my pants.
“Um . . . we have soy milk . . . and oat . . .” By her tone, she sounds more mortified than I am, which I guess is good . . . ? Mortified is better than repulsed, right? I make a mental note to ask Harlow or Stella if I get my drink before spontaneously combusting.
“Soy’s good,” I say quickly then hurry away from the seafoam trailer.
She calls after me, “You forgot to pay!”
I shove my hand in my pocket as I scurry back and pull a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet. “Keep the change.” I can’t look her in the eyes as I place the money on the counter. You know, spontaneously combusting actually doesn't sound that bad anymore.
“What’s your name?”
“My name?” I stutter. She wants to know my name? My heart takes flight and the fat babies start playing their heavenly chords again. I knew that little voice in my head wasn’t wrong. Despite being a literal shit-talking imbecile, she still wants to know my name.
She clarifies, “For the order. I’ll call it when your drink is ready.” Right.
I keep it short and simple to avoid any further word vomit. “Alfie.”
“I’m Georgie.” Her smile is soft and small but still able to knock me off my feet . . . literally. My heels bump into the edge of a small planter and my legs fly into the air as I fall back on a bed of flowers.
Other coffee-goers gasp as I look up at the clouds, really wishing I could spontaneously combust right about now.
I stand up, brush the dirt off myself, and maybe I hit my head a little too hard because I march right back up to that order window.
