Page 19 of One Midnight Kiss

8

NATALIA

Saturday mornings were my sanctuary. Every week, without fail, I would leave my favorite cycle studio drenched in sweat but feeling that delicious, post-workout high. It was part of my routine, my way to reclaim some semblance of control before diving back into the corporate madness that awaited me on Monday.

I was on autopilot, heading for my regular matcha latte, already envisioning the rest of my weekend: a shower, a good book, and blissful silence until Sunday night. I was looking forward to cracking the spine on the new book I ordered last week. I loved my Kindle, but some authors were just better if I could hold the book in my hand. I wanted the new book smell and the look of actual ink on paper.

As I walked toward the coffee shop, the scent of freshly grounded beans lured me in. The usual chatter from those enjoying a quiet Saturday morning filled the room. The barista already recognized me, a comforting familiarity woven into my routine. I didn’t have to utter a word before he set to work on my usual order. While waiting, I idly scanned the crowded room, eyes landing on a familiar figure huddled over a corner table.

It was him. The man who had increasingly been invading my thoughts.

Fox was reading a book, which threw me off for a second. But there was no mistaking that smug profile. I nearly dropped my phone. Or threw it at him.

What the hell is he doing in Kirkland?

I took a deep breath. Okay, he was probably just passing through. A coincidence. Nothing to panic about.

The barista smiled as I made my way to the counter. “How was your workout?” he asked.

I didn’t want Fox to hear my voice. The place wasn’t that big. There was no way he wouldn’t recognize my voice, right? Or maybe I was giving myself too much credit.

“Good,” I said with a smile.

I refused to look Fox’s way, but I could feel his eyes on me, sweeping over my body in my tight leggings and sports bra. A prickling heat crept up my neck. I felt so exposed. I tried to ignore him, focusing on scanning my phone over the reader to pay for my drink.

Unfortunately, his stare was burning a hole in my back. When I glanced over my shoulder, he was grinning, one brow arched in a way that made me want to wipe that look right off his face. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he’d been ogling me. Unbelievable.

I shoot him a dirty look before rolling my eyes, making my disgust evident. I turned back around, completely dismissing him.

The barista handed me my order with an expression that was a mix of curiosity and amusement.

“Do you know him?” he asked, nodding his head toward Fox.

I laughed it off. “Kind of. Thank you. I’ll see you next week.”

As I tried to make a clean escape with my drink, Fox nudged the chair opposite him, sliding it out from under the table like an invitation. A very presumptuous invitation. I hesitated, torn between storming out and remembering Dave’s incessant advice about “making connections with accounts, getting on their good side.”

I sighed and turned back to face him. “Were you planning on taking a picture of my ass, or is staring at it enough for you?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Don’t tempt me,” he said, his eyes slowly sweeping up from my legs to meet mine. His grin widened when he saw the scowl I couldn’t hide.

“Do you think you’re being charming?” I snapped, sliding into the chair he’d kicked out for me. Might as well get this over with.

Here I am—schmoozing clients.

He rolled his eyes. “If I were trying to charm you, Natalia, you’d know it. Because you wouldn’t be glaring at me anymore—you’d be smiling. Probably in my bed, wearing nothing but that smile.”

I kicked him under the table, hard. He didn’t even flinch.

“Are you stalking me, or did you get lost on your way to whatever hipster bar you usually crawl out of on a Saturday?” I sipped my drink as if we were having a polite conversation.

Fox’s laugh was infuriatingly genuine, like I’d just told the best joke he’d heard all day. That only infuriated me more.

“You give me too much credit,” he said casually. “I wasn’t aware Kirkland was your turf. I was here for the bookstore next door.” He tapped the book on the table with his finger. “But look at that—we both ended up here. Fate, maybe?”

“Fate?” I scoffed. “Don’t start with that mystical crap. What is it, anyway? Harry Potter?”

He tilted the book so I could see the cover. Grass by Sherri S. Tepper. I blinked, momentarily thrown off.