This girl was shy, awkward…and for some reason, intriguing. He had no idea why he looked forward to their silly chats, except they made him a little happier. Any ounce of happiness was such a rare occurrence in Nick’s life, he seized it gratefully.
Nick started the process of shutting down the computer. He’d eat, work out for a few hours, take a shower, read, and go to bed. The same as he did every night. He hesitated at the customary question of Do you want to save changes? There were no changes to save.
He cracked his knuckles and stretched his back. His fingers landed on the keys like a mocking friend, both beckoning and humiliating him in that order. Except now, the words coursed through his hands with great speed and little consideration as the page filled.
Sandwich girl, you are a mystery. A sweet, sad smile that never reaches your big brown eyes. Silky hair tucked and clipped away as if forgotten, save for the few rebellious strands struggling for freedom. Would you welcome my advance or retreat into the shadows? I can see your inexperience, an odd fit, wrapping around you like another coat. But there’s something else there, too. A profound strength that exists as if you’re a lone soldier, battling your way through a battered life.
Nick highlighted the section and hovered a finger above the delete key. Instead, he labeled the document Sandwich Girl and saved it to his hard drive. It wasn’t his best work and nothing he could use in a novel, but it meant something to him. It represented the first paragraph he’d managed in almost two years.
* * * *
Shyla Metha watched his window from a darkened corner some distance away. On warmer days, she’d stand in this area for twenty minutes until sufficiently shamed by her lurking. Still, she was drawn to him.
It wasn’t just his looks, although she couldn’t deny the pull of his broad shoulders, sandy hair that fell somewhere between brown and blond, and dark ocean-colored eyes. The beard was interesting, too, creating an air of mystery around him. Funny, she’d never expected to be attracted to physical characteristics so different from her own, yet she’d developed a dimwitted crush on this boy…man.
He’d been aloof in the beginning, and she was timid, a combination that never mixed, but one day she’d added a comment about the weather, and he had grinned, the rigid stiffness of his posture easing for a few seconds. Although they came from different worlds, they had something in common. Nick Dorsey was lonely and sad…perhaps even broken.
She clutched the black umbrella in her hand. Her time was growing short. She’d be returning home when her student visa expired at the end of the semester. Now was the time for risks! Or rather tomorrow when he ordered another sandwich.
Chapter 2
Dressed in a charcoal suit, Nick entered the fancy fusion restaurant, wondering why he hadn’t tried to cancel again. Not that Carrie would accept anymore of his bullshit excuses. He adjusted the noose-like knot of his navy necktie as the maître d' showed him to the table. Carrie sat in the corner booth sporting a bright pink dress and even brighter red hair that rebelled against the sedate opulence of the monochromatic colors surrounding her. Unlike him, she enjoyed dressing up. She crossed her legs, pointing the toe of her red-soled, polished heel toward Nick.
“Do you always have to pick a pretentious restaurant?” he asked before kissing her cheek. He took the seat across from her.
“When it’s a tax write-off, I do.” She leaned in as if revealing a secret. “The duck here is to die for.”
“I won’t be dying today,” Nick replied.
“You look great, Nick. You’ve been working out…a lot,” she said, reaching across the table to squeeze his bicep. “You have a license for these guns?”
“I’m taking advantage of the gym in my building.”
“What’s your regimen?”
“I doubled up on my running time. I do reps of one-armed push-ups, sit ups, and chin-ups.” He continued on, detailing his nightly ritual, until he noticed her eyes shifting around the room. “Shit, you don’t want to hear about this, right?”
“It’s interesting, but honestly you lost me somewhere between progressive overload and muscle confusion. Who knew there were so many terms?”
“I do,” he snapped. “I’m trying to explain them to you.” Nick sucked in a deep breath, wishing he could erase his harsh statement. Carrie was there for him when he needed someone most, and here he was acting like a complete dickhead.
“I’m sorry.” He ordered a tumbler of Johnnie Walker Blue from the waiter.
“Nick.” She leaned into the table, her voice stern but compassionate at the same time. “It’s me, remember? Your best friend?”
“How are you, friend?”
“I’m well.” The waiter set down her Chardonnay and Nick’s Scotch. Carrie interrupted in the middle of his specials spiel, requesting another moment. “Are you allowed to drink?” she asked, as soon as the waiter departed.
Nick winked, trying to put her at ease, because the line of questioning certainly wasn’t doing much for either of them. “I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m pretty sure I’ve surpassed the legal drinking age in this town.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I wasn’t an alcoholic, Carrie.”
Nick searched for the waiter, but he was nowhere in sight. “What did you want to talk about? As I recall, this is a business meeting.”
“We can get to that,” she replied, waving a hand at the hot bread on the table like a game show hostess, displaying a parting prize.
“Are you trying to con me with carbohydrates?”
“You have to try this bread. You can dip it in this extra fine, extra virgin olive oil or use this French herb butter.”
“I prefer my olive oil with a little experience. It should, at the very least, mature to second base.”
Carrie laughed much louder than the joke required. “I swear you’ll make me bust a button on this dress.”
“I’d be a very talented man if I could undress a woman without touching her.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Flirting has always been your…” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Strong suit?” Nick offered.
“Coping mechanism,” she retorted.
“Ouch. Well then, I suppose we should get down to business.”
“Why the rush? I haven’t seen you in a long time, Dorsey. Let’s catch up.”
“I want to make sure you get your well-earned tax deduction.”
She bit her bottom lip, her telltale sign of anxiety. “The publisher wants you to do a book tour.”
“No,” Nick said with enough bark that the waiter stopped just shy of approaching them and veered off in a different direction.
“Nick—”
“I’ve never done one, and I’m sure as hell not about to now.”
“Not that your sales aren’t high, but this could catapult them.” She gestured toward his face. “Even though I don’t approve of the Duck Dynasty beard, the fact is you’re gorgeous.”
“Duck Dynasty?” he asked, tilting his chin and