First Chapter: Studfinder
“You,” I hiss, glaring at the most annoying man I’ve ever met, and I’ve met plenty of annoying men. Of course, not all of them were hunky, smirky, sexy silver foxes, but that was neither here nor there. I am standing here, and he is sitting there. “You are in my spot.”
This is the third time this week he’s encroached on my couch in the Busy Bean Café, and three strikes mean you’re out, handsome.
Taking a moment, the offender blinks before narrowing his bluest-of-blue eyes and glares back at me. For a second, I wonder if I have something on my face. Maybe chocolate in the corner crease of my lips or lettuce in my teeth from lunch.
What the frick is he staring at?
Then he blinks again and slowly leans forward. His arm porn-worthy forearms rest on his wide-spread thighs as he glances up at me. Since I think he’s about to stand from the place where he’s perched, I speak.
“Thank you.” My mother taught me manners, even if I sometimes lack the use of them. Especially on this occasion, where a hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox who is the most annoying man I’ve ever met is sitting in my spot on the plush peach couch in my favorite coffee shop.
He stops moving at my gratitude and turns his head slowly left to right. Then he swivels at the waist right to left, exaggerating his motions as if he’s searching for something over his shoulders. Did he forget something? Did he drop his phone? His hand moves to his side and smooths over the velvety cushion, stroking it like the soft texture is a pleasure fabric or a preferred pet. My mouth waters for some reason because his movements might match that of him caressing a woman, taking his time to sculpt along her thighs. Maybe glide over her backside. Stroke the inside of her legs and . . .
“Just what are you doing?” He’s taking too long to move it.
“I’m looking for a sign that says this seat is taken.” Turning that edgy face upward, beaming those blue headlights at me, he crooks the corner of his mouth in the smirkiest of smirks. “But as I don’t see one, nor do I see your name on this couch, I think I’ll stay.”
He falls back against the couch as if he’s dropping onto a mattress, tossing himself down into the fluffiest of pillows to catch his hard body in a cushion of heaven. His arms stretch wide to encompass the length of the couch back. He even sighs. A long, lush, deep groan of pleasure emits from him while his eyes close for a second. Then he inhales. When his lids flip open, he spears me in place. That does not stop my mouth.
“Look, handsome, this is my spot. Everyone knows it’s my spot. Think Norm in Cheers, where everybody knows his name. This is where I sit.” I shouldn’t have called him handsome. He probably already knows he is. In fact, I’m certain he knows he’s good-looking. I don’t know how he even faces himself in the mirror every morning. He’s that good-looking.
“I’m curious if everyone is always glad you came . . .” His eyes narrow at me, and I ignore the emphasis he’s put on a certain term. I will not fall for these kinds of wordplay games, nor will I falter under the curl of his sassy mouth. Even the crinkle of his nose as he annunciated that word was hot.
“Of course, they’re always glad I’m here, occupying my spot.” My voice hardens as my fists clench at my sides. I’ve had a day, and I just want to sit in my happy place and sip some coffee. Is the Busy Bean the most convenient spot for me to haunt? No, it is not, but I’ve been to worse places—been there, done that—and I will not be going back. I live halfway between Colebury and Montpelier, where my law office is located, and coming here is out of my way most days. But today is one of those days when I need my spot and a good cup of dark roast, and I do not need this hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox glaring back at me or his fine backside taking up residency on my couch.
Get a grip, Rita.
Technically, I don’t own the couch or the right to claim this space as mine. The Busy Bean Café is owned and operated by Audrey Shipley and Zara Rossi, both excellent businesswomen. They’ve taken this quaint location on the old gin mill property and made it into something special. With brick-red walls and chalkboard painted beams overhead, the creaking wooden floors and eclectic mixture of furniture begs a person to come in and linger, which is what I do—often. Not to mention, the coffee is divine. The dark roast is a special blend introduced to the place a while back, and the addition of delicious cupcakes on the menu from Oh, For Heaven’s Cakes makes this place more than just a coffeehouse. It’s heaven in Vermont.
It’s my heaven, and the devil himself is sitting here.
Jake Drummond is his name, actually, but that’s semantics to me. He’s quickly becoming a huge thorn in my side.
“What are you even doing here?” I snap although I might know the answer. The local Catholic church hosts an AA meeting soon, and perhaps he’ll be attending it. Internally, I bitterly laugh at the thought. This man does not take Alcoholics Anonymous seriously.
Jake peers around the room, exaggerating his observation once again before lifting a coffee mug. “I’m enjoying the local brew.”
My eyes narrow at him, and I try to ignore the sharp edge to his cheeks. Plus, the layer of scruff that is a mix of gray and black blended to perfection against the cliff of his jaw. His short-cropped hairstyle matches that stubbly facial mixture. Despite his face looking young, the crinkles near his eyes and the tightness to his mouth give away the fact he’s easily over forty like me.
In comparison, the wrinkles on my neck and the graying strands of hair weaving their way through my mousy brown mop make me look older than I am some days. While the indents near my eyes are often called laugh lines, I’m well aware their presence is from stress and glaring at people, like this man, who knows he’s handsome, full of charm, and giving off a vibe that makes me want to tackle him to said couch and have my way with him.
A shaky hand comes to my forehead. What I really need is to get laid, but it’s been so long I don’t know what that is anymore. Why do we even call it getting laid? I can do it standing up. I can do it on a bus. I can do it against a door. I can do it on the floor. I can . . . stop rhyming in my head like a sexually deprived Dr. Seuss fan.
His sapphire eyes stare at me, and silence lingers as if he asked me something, and I’ve taken too long to answer.
“Did you say something?”
“Nope.” He pops the p-sound and lowers his lips for the brim of his coffee mug, taking his time to sip at the heavenly dark roast. As I’m easily distracted by the scruff surrounding his mouth, I notice the rich red color of his lips and wonder if they taste as candy sweet as they look.
Probably more like a red-hot cinnamon drop.
“Fine,” I grumble, turning away from the plush peach couch I long to sit on and step back to the counter.
“Roddy, give me a dark roast to go and one of those Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes.” I glance back at Jake, who is watching me. Turning back to Roddy, I add, “Better make it a double on the cupcakes. I need something sweet to rid the bad taste in my mouth.”
I glare back at Jake, squeezing my entire face like a child sticking out her tongue at my nemesis. I don’t know what it is about Jake, but something about him raises the hackles on my neck and dampens my underwear at the same time.
As Roderick pours my coffee and sets my cupcakes in a bag, my foot taps impatiently. I’m a bundle of nerves and need to get out of here if I can’t sit here to relax.
“Two Dark Horse Mochaccino cupcakes and a dark roast for the plush peach couch defender.” Roderick winks at me, before eyeing the man hogging my spot.
“Next time I come in here, he better not be taking up space in my place.”
Roderick laughs. “Now, Rita, as much as we love you, you know we can’t reserve you a spot, nor will we kick patrons out if they sit there first.”
Jake can hear Roderick from his seat, and he lifts his mug to salute Roddy’s words.
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” I snap, preparing for battle over a set of cushions in a coffeehouse.
“I look forward to the challenge,” Jake mocks from his seat on said couch, and then he has the audacity to wink at me. He winks. Quickly, I turn my back on the hunky, smirky, sexy silver fox and strut across the wooden planks to exit the Busy Bean. Only as I use my backside to push the door open, I glance back at Jake Drummond once more and find him watching me with those cinnamon hot lips quirked up on one side, and I realize he’s going to be difficult to ignore as he recently started to work with me.