Better Than Safe (3 page)

I couldn’t believe I’d been stood up. It was rude. Very rude. I should never have discounted my intuition. I’d obviously had second thoughts for good reason. As I inched my way forward in the line, I caught my reflection in the pastry glass. My hair was shorter on the sides and slightly longer than I liked on top. I supposed I could get a haircut this morning, I thought, pushing up the sleeves of my V-neck pullover. I’d worn my favorite light blue cashmere I knew complemented my eyes for purely vain purposes. I’d never been on a date, even the coffee sort, with a runway model and though I was always fastidious about dress and general appearance, I’d put more effort than normal into getting ready this morning. Served me right.

I eyed the unhappy toddler in front of me warily when he let out a shrill cry. He looked ready to combust. I wasn’t entirely surprised when he suddenly flung himself from his mother’s arms in a fit and grabbed a handful of my cashmere pullover with a grubby orange-crusted hand to stop his fall. I smiled through my teeth as I tried to release myself from his surprisingly strong clutches. His mortified mother gasped at the smudge on my sleeve.

“Oh my God! I am so sorry, sir. I—oh gosh, I have baby wipes. Let me get you—”

“No, don’t worry. It’s quite all right.”

The infant in the buggy started a new round of screeching that set off his older sibling. “Sorry. It’s one of those mornings.”

“I underst—” My weak smile turned into a grimace when I was jostled from the other side by someone sliding into line behind me.

“Hey! There you are! Sorry I’m late.”

Seth. I stared at him for a moment in a sort of odd daze. I had a hard time believing he’d actually shown up. And God, he was more stunning close up than he had been wearing high fashion at the photo shoot a few days ago. He was dressed in a thick navy button-down shirt with jeans and hiking boots. He looked rugged and manly. Very… butch. Oddly enough, his longer hair seemed to add a sexy layer of masculinity. But sexy or not, he was late. Very late.

I opened my mouth to speak, realizing I’d been staring at him like a bloody idiot, just as the demonic toddler grabbed another handful of my sweater. Fuck. I turned to extricate myself from the pudgy orange-stained fingers and started at the sound of Seth’s deep chuckle. He reached out to gently remove the boy’s grip with a kind smile.

“Whoa. You’re tough, big guy! What kind of orange snack is making you so strong?” Seth asked the wide-eyed toddler. The small boy clutched at his mother then grinned shyly up at my date. “Looks like Cheetos,” he added with another chuckle.

The embarrassed mother blushed and gave Seth a quick double take before hurrying forward to place her order with the barista. I narrowed my eyes and gave him a hard stare. I’d gone from thinking I’d been stood up or forgotten to having to adjust to his presence. And I just couldn’t let it go… he was late.

I stepped up to place our order, reminding myself to relax. It was only coffee.

“Good morning. I’ll have a large latte please. Um… what do you fancy?” I glanced sideways at Seth who was standing so close to me I could feel his breath on my ear.

“Huh?”

He looked at me like I was speaking another language. I sighed and tried again, using plain American English. My accent tended to thicken when I was irritated. If I didn’t want to spend the next hour translating myself, I had to relax. And speak slowly.

“What do you want to drink?”

“Oh right. A small coffee, please. Here let me get it.” He dug his hand into his front pocket and pulled out a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill just as the cashier handed my credit card back. “Oh. Uh, next time,” he said with a boyish grin.

I smiled absently as I moved to the end of the counter, ultra-aware of his presence behind me. Seth was only an inch taller than my six foot one, but his broad shoulders and somewhat cocky stance made him seem larger. And rather imposing. I wasn’t sure I liked it. In fact, I wasn’t sure I liked anything about my morning so far. I picked up my latte and motioned toward an empty table for two near the front. Unfortunately an old man leaning heavily on a cane beat us to it. I turned abruptly in frustration and bumped into Seth’s wall of a chest.

“There’s an empty table outside. We could—”

“It’s wet,” I said sharply, too irritated to soften my tone.

I scanned the small shop and saw one opening up near the restrooms in the back of the store. Seth spotted it at the same time and made a hand motion for me to follow him. I waited half a second before obeying, admiring the rear view as he walked toward the table and took the chair closest to the back wall. The other chair faced the restrooms. My nose twitched in distaste, but I gamely took the less desirable vacant seat before turning my gaze to the handsome young man across the table.

“Thanks for the coffee.” Seth grinned raising his cup in a toast.

“You’re welcome.”

“Aaron mentioned you had a sexy accent. Where are you from? Oh hey… let me get this. You have orange shit all over your sleeve.” He reached over with a napkin and brushed a smudge of neon dust from my pullover. “That kid had a pretty strong grip. There you go. All better.”

I cocked my head, puzzled by his overly familiar ministrations. His hand felt warm and almost comforting through the fine threads of cashmere. I coughed and shifted in my chair before pulling back slightly.

“Thank you. And to answer your first question, I’m from London. Uh look, I know you know my name but, it seems odd not to introduce myself. I’m Paul Fallon.”

I offered my right hand in greeting. He stared at it for longer than polite before chuckling softly, then reaching out to grasp my fingers. He shook my hand slowly, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

“Nice to meet you, Paul. I’m Seth. Seth Landau.”

I felt heat travel up my neck and blossom across my cheeks. For no apparent reason. According to Aaron, Seth was eight years my junior. I was supposed to be the seasoned veteran dater here. The older, more experienced man with a flash of savoir faire. I certainly shouldn’t be turning shades of scarlet because a sexy man smiled at me or wiped orange crumbs from my sleeve. It was ridiculous.

“Lovely to meet you.” I picked up my cup and took a small sip, using the diversion to sort through my usual medley of “get to know you” dating questions. “Aaron tells me you’ve been modeling for a while. How did you—”

“It’s not really interesting. It’s just a job, you know?”

Silence.

“Well, what is interesting, then? Where are you from? What comes after modeling? What are your hob—”

“None of that’s interesting either.”

He huffed a quick laugh and looked away for a second. I could practically see the invisible walls come up around him. It made no sense. Wasn’t the point of this… coffee experiment to ask and answer trite personal questions? The kind you’d never ask under any circumstance when meeting someone for the first time. I gritted my teeth before trying again with a perceptible strain of sarcasm in my voice.

“Why don’t you simply tell me something about yourself, then? Surprise me.”

This time his laughter was sincere. It rang cheerfully in the air and settled like a soft smile between us. It was… promising.

“Okay. I play guitar and I’m an artist.”

“Oh. That is interesting. I love music. Jazz in partic—”

“Not my thing,” he interrupted, looking away again. I was tempted to see who or what had his attention, but I refused to play along. He was beautiful but I wasn’t impressed so far. His purposeful belligerence made no sense. Why did he bother showing up if he wasn’t interested?

“Go on. What is your thing?” My clipped, imperious tone let him know what I thought of his so-called thing, but I pasted a smile on my face and waited.

“Rock and roll.” He sipped his coffee slowly and this time kept his eyes glued to mine.

“How long have you been playing?”

“About ten years. I think I got my first six-string when I was fourteen. I begged for one for Christmas that year. My wish came true, complete with lessons.”

“That’s great. How long did you take lessons? I know many musicians still take from oth—”

“One year. I got kicked out the next Christmas when I was fifteen for being a ‘dirty fucking faggot.’”

He stopped to run his hand thoughtfully over his stubbled chin as though he were awaiting my reaction. I couldn’t help feeling there was something almost… calculated in his speech as though he was expecting a specific response from me. Like I was being tested.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said lamely.

“Hmph. Whatever. I’m mostly self-taught. I play in my friend’s band every once in a while when his regular guitarist is too fucked-up or strung out, but it’s just for fun. It doesn’t pay like modeling does. It’s a drag. I mean, I know I’m lucky ’cause the money is good. It just gets a little boring hanging out all day having your picture taken. You know?” I stared blankly, wondering if he realized he sounded like a spoiled brat. “What do you do for the magazine? Shit. Don’t tell me you’re the dude in charge of hiring and firing models.” His nonchalant snort clearly stated he really didn’t give a fuck either way.

I studied him over the rim of my to-go cup before answering. “No. I don’t work for the magazine at all. I’m the director of fashion marketing for the Phillips Agency. Our clientele is primarily designers and firms looking for appropriate media representation via print, social networking—”

“Whoa! That sounds… important.” He tucked his hair behind his ear and offered a smile that really was closer to a smirk.

I wanted to strangle him. Somehow I managed a tight-lipped grin in return and was about to respond with a snotty “it is” when he spoke first.

“I don’t think I really understood anything you just said but it sounded cool. I dig accents. When Aaron told me you were British, I was like ‘I gotta meet him.’ I love a sexy accent, you know?”

“Right.” I glanced at my watch and stood abruptly. “I didn’t realize the time. I should get going.”

“Me too. I’ll walk out with you.”

There was no point in protesting. I was almost done with this complete wasted hour of my life. I could suffer through an awkward good-bye. I did my best to ignore his hand on my back as we made our way to the front of the shop. It was proprietary and in light of our disastrous date, it was highly inappropriate. Seth held the door for me just as the young mother was exiting. He smiled brightly at the young boy she carried on her hip and waved playfully before bending to pick up a toy the child dropped. He handed it back with a kind smile and fist bump that made the little boy giggle. I watched the exchange, completely bewildered.

Seth Landau was a strange man. I highly doubted he met me for coffee just to hear my “sexy” accent. Something told me he was putting on an act to alternately provoke me or let me believe he was an idiot. I couldn’t begin to guess his motivation. It was strange and oddly contradictory to how sweet he was with the toddler or how he’d tended to the leftover Cheetos dust earlier. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe I’d been more bothered about his lack of punctuality than—

“Man, I was dying for a smoke.” He sighed, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette and light. “It was nice meeting you. See you around sometime.” He turned with a short wave then walked a couple of steps away before stopping to light up. He blew a stream of smoke, then glanced back and gave me a knowing grin as though he knew my eyes were glued to his backside.

I growled under my breath and made my way toward my car. What a bloody waste of time.

T
HE
REST
of my Saturday passed in a blur of boring chores: exercise, a haircut, and a jaunt to one of my favorite Smithsonian museums. I should have spent some time working, but I was too restless after my failed coffee date. The incongruities of Seth’s personality bothered me. He wasn’t easy to forget. I found myself running through the odd twists of our brief conversation in my head. He was… puzzling. Or maybe quirky. I dealt with plenty of quirky types daily. I usually liked being around people who were “outside of the box” thinkers. He was an oddball, but he wasn’t my problem. Thank God.

Later that night I sat in my living room with a glass of wine at my side and John Coltrane’s
Blue Train
playing softly in the background. I appreciated a measure of quiet but never silence. Jazz was the perfect equalizer for any mood, and this CD was one of my very favorites. I reached for my book just as a text message popped up on my cell.

I’m sorry about earlier today. Want to try again? Maybe lunch this time?

I stared at the screen in disbelief. Really? The answer was no. Absolutely not. I wasn’t interested in the slightest. I started to compose a long-winded text that began with “you must be joking” but decided it wasn’t worth the headache. The best course of action was inaction. No more coffee dates for me. For a while at least.

T
HE
FOLLOWING
Monday morning, my cell buzzed as I was about to head into a staff meeting. I should have let it go to voice mail, but just seeing Aaron’s name on the display made me smile. I looked forward to his friendly chatter before I discussed business.

“Good morning, darling. How are you?”

“Fabulous! I think we have a date!” The squeal of joy on the other end made me laugh.

“Oh. When will you and your lovely fiancé become happy husbands?” I asked, glancing out my office window at the passersby on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was a beautiful crisp spring day with blue skies. Not a hint of rain in the air.

“October 18 or 25. It depends on when the venue is available and don’t ask me where it will be! It’s a surprise. For now anyway,” he chuckled. “Enough about me. I’m actually calling about the Burberry spread. Marsha wanted to talk layout but I haven’t seen the collection yet.”

“I’ll call Burberry.” I added the pesky task of contacting Aaron’s editor-in-chief to one of a thousand things to be done today. We talked about upcoming photo shoots and artwork he wanted to include for background.