Property Of (3 page)

Two

Gypsy’s Coffee House was located in the newly renovated downtown Tulsa arts district. It was an eclectic coffee shop on Cameron Street in the historic Gypsy Oil building. The old three-story, red brick building had been renovated in 2000 to the delight of many who called downtown Tulsa home. Now it served rich, hearty coffee, great teas, delectable desserts, and sandwiches. Brick walls and comfy couches set the décor that was as vibrant as those who hung out there. Open mic nights brought in local talent, and the coffee kept my girls and me coming back year after year. We started hanging out at Gypsy’s right after we came home from college. Our new adult lives might have kept us busy, but we always made time for each other and a great coffee at least once a week. That was until I got so engrossed in my novels that I barely had time for my cats.

However, that time was behind me, I’d learned my lesson, and I now sat on one of Gypsy’s comfy couches, catching up with my friends. Relaxed for the first time in months, I laughed as Kasey read some of the messages she’d received on a dating site called Plenty of Fish or, as everyone referred to it, POF.

Kasey had created a profile on Plenty of Fish in the past two weeks and had messaged with a gorgeous man, who claimed to be looking for love. He’d flirted and made plans to meet her for drinks the following week after he returned from a wedding out of town. However, before that could happen, he had amped up the flirting to the point that he was asking her if she wanted to be “his girl.” The conversation gradually became more intimate in nature, which prompted Kasey to send him sexy pictures. She was thrilled to have found someone so in tune with her own passions in life, but the conversation always seemed to lead back to him asking for intimate pictures of her. Apparently, she obliged the man and asked him to reciprocate, which he did. The problem for Kasey began when she never received anything other than body shots that didn’t include his face. His profile picture showed a gorgeous blonde male with a tantalizing smile, and his Twitter profile matched his POF profile. After three days of flirting, with no new pictures of him being sent, she told him she wanted a current picture of him in the tuxedo he was supposedly wearing at the wedding. That’s when he turned from flirty—potential boyfriend material to a man who said he couldn’t handle a stage five clinger—all because she’d wanted a current picture of him.

She showed us the messages passed back and forth between the two of them, and we could tell she was crushed that he dropped her so suddenly, but didn’t have a clue why he’d reacted the way he did. It had been Janeane who first saw him for what he really was: a catfish who never intended to meet her. All he'd been after the whole time was the personal enjoyment of fooling a woman into believing he was someone he was not, and a few sexy pictures.

“Oh my God, listen to this guy,” Angela blurted out. “’Are you on birth control?’ he asked her, and then Kasey said ‘Yes.’ Then the dickhead replied, ‘Good, because I want you to feel my cock pulse inside you.’ Jesus, this guy knows exactly what to say. Too bad he was fake ‘cause that’s kinda hot.”

“’’
Send me one more hot pic of you, I need to cum’
,”
Janeane continued reading over Angela’s shoulder.

“Tell me you didn’t?” I begged Kasey.

“I did. I know I should have been more careful, but he seemed so real,” Kasey defended. “But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson. No more sending sexy pics to guys until I’ve met them first.”

I was shocked by this blatant deception, yet intrigued that someone as smart as Kasey could be so easily fooled by this guy. Still, after reading all the messages I could see why she fell for his charming and sexy persona. He was just that good. However, now my writer’s brain had come to life and firing on all pistons. I couldn’t help it; I started plotting a book.

It’s a gift and a curse to be able to take a single conversation with someone and turn it into a book. A curse because I couldn’t shut it down. A gift because I made a living doing something I loved.

Excusing myself to the ladies' room, I continued to think about a plot incorporating a dating site like POF and men who went to considerable lengths to create fake accounts just for a few salacious pictures. I was still thinking about how that scenario would play out when I exited the ladies’ room, shaking my wet hands because they were out of paper towels.

When I rounded the corner, my head down, looking at my shoes, I collided with a solid body and sent someone’s coffee sloshing. My hands went up to stop myself and they landed on a hard chest as my forehead slammed into a solid jaw. A responding grunt made me look up until I saw a pair of gleaming honey-colored eyes. Then I froze and blinked rapidly to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

Nope, it was him, the muse for my next book.

I pushed away quickly as my heart rate picked up. I looked up for a second time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but I wasn’t. It was still Detective Drop Dead Delicious in all his glory, and he was beautiful in that dark and dangerous way bad boys had. His hair was dark-brown, not black, and swept off his face haphazardly as if he’d run his hands through it after his shower and that was it for the coiffing portion of his day. His jaw was chiseled like a granite statue, covered with days-old growth, and it was set in hard contours as he clenched and released it. His eyes were the color of honey and so light, they fairly glowed like the sun. And his mouth . . . Lord, that mouth looked like it could kiss you so thoroughly you’d forget your name, your mother’s name, and the boy you lost your virginity to as well. There was a dark arrogance, born of authority, that waved off him and he was wholly masculine to the point of being beautiful. He was tall, he was broad, he was in-your-face spectacular, and he filled the space like one of my Highland warriors exuding predatory power. My knees went weak just thinking about the comparison. No, seriously, even though I wrote this shit and it sounded good in a book, it really happened . . . my knees were like noodles.

I scanned his body and saw large, powerful thighs, shoulders that were incredibly broad and chest and arm muscles that bulged from beneath his white shirt. My eyes shot back to his shirt before I had a chance to finish my inspection and I froze. Thanks to my inattention, it was ruined, and he was looking down at it, scowling.

Hell’s bells.

He looked up from his chest, pointed those honey-colored eyes at me, and glared. I smiled back out of nervous habit and watched in fascination as those golden globes softened in return.

“I . . . I’m so sorry. Let me get a wet paper towel, and I’ll buy you another coffee,” I rambled as I tried to move around him unable to handle the intense stare he had graced upon me. Unfortunately, he had the same idea and moved at the same time. My hand came up as he turned his body, and I sent his other cup of coffee plummeting to the floor. He jumped back to avoid the disaster as I gasped and threw my hands over my face.

I heard him rumble, “Fuck,” as I peeked through my fingers to survey the damage. He had coffee all over his boots and splattered up his jeans. He was, quite literally, a coffee-covered mess. In addition to that, let us not forget the two wet handprints I’d left on the front of his shirt, making it appear that I had groped him.

Humiliated, wishing the floor would open and suck me into a dark hole, I did the only thing I knew to do in this situation. I kept my mouth shut; my arms and legs pinned to my body and waited until he had entered the men’s room. Then I ran to the counter, threw a ten at the man, and begged for two replacement coffees for the Detective.

I’d also like to point out that my friends watched this all play out in quiet fascination, with looks of sheer confusion on their faces, when I glanced back at them and grimaced.

I offered to clean up the mess, but the manager shooed me away, so I stood quietly waiting for the detective to return. After five minutes, my muse came strolling out of the men’s room, still a coffee-stained mess. When he saw me standing there, he stopped—a good distance away, I might add—and he stared at me. He did a full body scan, mumbled, “Not a drop on you,” and then saw the new coffees being offered by the man behind the counter. As he accepted my peace offering, his lips twitched into a sexy half grin. Lifting the coffees in a salutation of forgiveness he then winked at me, which sent my heart fluttering, turned on his heels and he was gone.

I watched his retreating backside while my memory played his wink, his grin, and his tight firm ass over and over. The way he had little flecks of green in his amber eyes, the way his bottom lip was fuller than the top. The way I’d like to bite said lip right before he—.

“What was that?” Angela chuckled from behind me, causing me to jump.

“What was what?” I hedged.

“That coy girl routine you just played with that extremely hot man. Even after the disaster you caused, he still checked you out and you just stood there.”

“I wasn't acting coy.”

“You didn’t rip his clothes off either. What the fuck?” she accused.

“It’s complicated,” I tried to explain.

“Uncomplicate it for me then,” Angela insisted.

Glancing back at the rest of the girls, I groaned as I made my way back to the couch.

Kasey Austin, Janeane Dee, Kristina Kozak, and Angela Shue had been my friends since we figured out that chocolate combated PMS. We’d gone to high school and college together and somehow managed to remain close throughout all of the hormones, men, and bullshit life had thrown our way, including my penchant for disappearing whenever I started writing a new book.

Angela, who was half-Japanese, half-white, but favored her father’s side except for her almond-shaped eyes, managed one of the local chain banks in downtown Tulsa. She was married, but had no children and probably never would. She was as career-driven as her husband of three years was, and they loved to travel. She had short black hair, soulful brown eyes, and a right hook to rival any man, thanks to self-defense classes.

Kasey was divorced with two small boys ages six and three. She had married barely out of college, to a man named Mark who was in the military. His constant deployments put a strain on their young marriage and they’d split up a little over two years ago. Needing to be close to her family and friends, she moved home and opened Om-klahoma Yoga studio next door to Gypsy’s six months ago. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes, and legs that went on for miles.

Janeane was single as well and worked as a legal assistant while she went to law school at the University of Tulsa. A second-generation Irish immigrant on her mother’s side with strawberry blonde hair, sky blue eyes, and double D cups, she looked like a model, but she had a brain to boot (Highly educated super models are excluded from my stereotypical and unfounded opinion of their IQ, of course).

Kristina was also married, but she and her husband Jake hadn’t found the time for children. She was an up-and-coming realtor with goals that didn’t allow for children at this time, but was considering freezing her eggs with future children in mind. She had dark-brown hair, a tiny waist, and an ass that rivaled JLo’s.

Then there was me. I stood five-foot-four on a good day. My legs weren’t long, my boobs weren’t big, and my ass wasn’t bodacious like my friends. However, I had full pouty lips and long, thick, light-blonde hair with shades of gold threaded throughout and it was bone straight.

The five of us had been friends since high school. They were my soul sisters, my sisters from another mister, the friends who would always be there through thick and thin, and who knew me better than I knew myself. In fact, they knew me so well they only had to look at my face to know that I was in uncharted territory. What they didn’t understand was why. How do you explain the unexplainable to someone who isn’t a writer?

As a writer, I was constantly running story ideas through my head. If I saw a woman who looked a certain way, I’d build a character around her. If I heard an unusual story on the news, I plotted an outline for a book. If I noticed a devastatingly handsome cop on TV, I’d build a story around him, develop his personality, dream up a heroine for him, and design new sexual positions to fit his personality.

Since I’d seen the detective on the evening news, I’d determined his personality, built his backstory, and imagined myself as the heroine and all that entailed, i.e. steamy sex scenes. What I’d never dreamed, while I built his character and made love to him in my imagination, was that I’d ever meet him.

Normally, writers created characters out of thin air. We developed them, matured them through the arc of the story, and then finally let them go. What we didn’t do was ever meet them. Especially since, up until now, my characters had all been medieval and long since dead. Nevertheless, when I watched the news and saw that man, I knew I had to write a story about him. However, he didn’t fit into my historical world since he was of this century. So instead of writing another Highlander book I began thinking about a contemporary romance for him. I made him sensitive, gentle, in touch with his feelings—the way men today seemed to be raised. But never in my wildest dreams did I expect we’d meet. Having a fictional character walk into the coffee house while I had just contemplated writing him into a book about Kasey’s failed attempt at internet dating, was, discombobulating at the very least.

I was never shy around men since most didn’t faze me. I was always outgoing and if I did see a man I was interested in, I stood up and said hi. Yet, when I ran into the detective and saw how he commanded the space like one of my Highlanders, he shook me to my core. Men weren’t like that nowadays. They didn't own a room when they walked in. Oh, the gorgeous ones might think they did, but there’s a certain arrogance behind their confidence, one that came from knowing they’re good-looking.