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Which brings me to the other reason today is shit. I spent the whole week going over Moore’s financials as well as our marketing plan. Or lack of one, really. It’s sort of embarrassing to realize how long Moore’s has been coasting on its old-money reputation. And it’s just as obvious that Stan hasn’t been hands-on in years. His remark that I’d never worked hard for anything is so ironic it isn’t funny. All he’s ever done was leave it to “the good old boys” to run his family’s legacy while he played a round of golf.
My meeting this morning with said good old boys, aka the corporate managers, was the cherry on top of the shit sundae that is my day so far. The idiots all wanted to lay people off. That old-school way of doing business really chafes my ball sack. So… I may have fired more managers than I’d planned on.
But then again, I’d just been taking their advice, hadn’t I?
I chuckle at the thought. And then chuckle some more when I think of all the phone calls Stan will get from his work buddies, all bemoaning that his son fired them.
Maybe today isn’t such a shit day after all.
I grab my coffee from the young barista at the counter and put a twenty in the tip jar. Technically, they aren’t supposed to have a tip jar on the counter. But as I know them all to be college students working for their bread (literally), I’m not about to enforce yet another archaic rule.
However, I must move too fast for the next person in line because we bump into each other when I turn to leave.
Do you know what happens when you’re holding an extra-hot cappuccino and your momentum is impeded by a strong force in the opposite direction?
Burnt mother-fucking man nipples is what.
“Fuck!” I yell at the same time as the person who ran into me. The chorus of profanity is enough to turn everyone’s head in the café, making us the entertainment of the morning, I’m sure.
For a moment, my brain is too busy trying not to go into shock from the scalding hot coffee dripping down my shirtfront. But once my synapses start firing correctly, the important things come into focus.
Like the slim hands currently dabbing at my chest with paper napkins. Or the way those hands lead to slender wrists and toned arms. And how the top of this woman’s head is covered in the most beautiful shade of hair I’ve ever seen. Like all the sunset colors and stuff.
What? I’m a dude. That’s as descriptive as I get.
Then she looks up, and my brain shuts down again.
Because holy hell, not even boiling coffee can stop my dick from twitching when I look into those eyes.
Brown eyes. Which no one ever writes odes about, except for good old Van Morrison. But they should. Because these chocolate brown eyes, lit up by golden flecks, deserve a fucking sonnet. No, a symphony, written in their honor. I’m lost in them, hearing the pretend orchestra in my head playing a score to this moment in time that I’m pretty sure will change my life.
That is, until said eyes squint with concern, and I realize the woman has been talking to me this whole time.
“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. Her stunning eyes widen, and she takes a step back, letting me know I may have just shouted. But when you’ve got a symphony in your head, you’ve got to speak up.
“Sorry.” I mentally lower the volume on my internal soundtrack I’ve got going. “What were you saying?”
Her full lips twist to the side in amusement. “Well, I said quite a few things, but I’ll just remind you of these two.” She holds up one of her hands, leaving the other pressed to my chest with a napkin. A napkin that’s already soaked and useless, but I’m not about to bring that up. “One, I’m terribly sorry. And two, are you okay?”
At this point, she’s probably questioning my mental acuity as well as my burnt chest with her last question. She has a Southern accent, her words moving a bit slower, more sensuously out of that wide mouth than the edgy, quick-worded New Yorkers I’m used to. Something about that accent stirs in the back of my mind, but I shove it aside and focus on the woman in front of me.
I cover her hand on my chest with my own and say, “Baby, I think you just made my day.”
I’m pretty stoked at my charming comeback. The barista watching us sighs in delight. Out of the corner of my eye, an old lady clasps her hands to her heart at the romantic scene she’s witnessing. Hell, the angelic cherubs painted on the café’s ceiling start singing (or maybe that’s my soundtrack again).
But the lady who could’ve sent me to the emergency room with third-degree nip burns? She just tugs her hand out from mine and rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, you’re okay.”
She steps back, and that’s when I see I’m not the only one covered in cappuccino.
Just like the nipples currently visible through the shirt the woman is wearing, my day is starting to look up. She catches my glance and looks to her shirtfront. With a sigh, she crosses her arms over her chest, cutting off my personal wet T-shirt contest.
“This isn’t exactly the introduction I was hoping for,” she murmurs.
“I beg to differ. I think this was a spectacular way to get my attention.” I wink at her, but unlike every other warm-blooded woman in New York I’ve tried it on in the past, it just seems to annoy her. I clear my throat, smile still in place, and try again. “I’m Chase.”
“Yes, I know who you are, Mr. Moore. That’s why I wanted to introduce myself.”
