Page 8 of Naked Coffee Guy
Yes, I’m embarrassed that he probably makes seven figures while I scrimp on the groceries to survive the month. But honestly, that’s not what matters or what I even care about. I never have cared about wealth, and in this moment, I realize I still don’t.
What I care about is the fact that I’ve finally met a man I can relate with on a human level.
I’m all about a good fuck. Relationships? No. But a good, meaningless fling can be a great thing. No strings attached. No messy feelings. No promises, no rules. Sure, I’ve come close to caring about the guys I’ve been with, but never enough to want something permanent.
This is different, though. As much as I want to see what’s under that ten-thousand-dollar suit, I’m also craving more of the connection we’ve shared. For the first time, I’m thinking about what tomorrow will bring. In just a short amount of time, Mac has not only stimulated my body, but he’s stimulated my mind. He’s made me curious about the future, and if I go back to his place, it’s possible the fire we’ve started will burn out before anything can come of this.
I want something to come of this.
“Let’s stay here,” I say, and immediately recognize the flash of disappointment. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, and he smiles as he stands.
“Then let me get you a refill,” he says, leaning down to kiss my cheek. He lingers, and I feel the whisper of his beard against my skin as I inhale his intoxicating scent—a blend of leather and pine that sends a ripple straight to my core. Fuck me, this man is going to tear me apart. And damn, if I don’t want him to.
“I’m going to use the bathroom, meet me back here,” I order. I move to retrieve my shoes, but he pulls me close again, our bodies fitting like they are each other’s missing piece. I feel small pressed against his solid chest, like he could shatter me with just the tip of his finger. He looks down at me, then shakes his head.
“Maren, what the fuck am I going to do with you?” he murmurs, then brushes his lips against mine. Then he’s gone, disappearing into the crowd while my body chills at the absence of his heat.
Fuck me.
According to Mac’s $2,000 watch, it’s nearly two in the morning, and after not sleeping at all last night, I’m starting to feel it. Boots on and now in the bathroom, I take a look at my face in the mirror and realize I look it, too. I don’t have to work tomorrow, so at least I can sleep in before my pastry date with Claire. Wait till she hears about Mac.
I glance again in the mirror, looking past the dark shadows forming under my eyes to see what Mac sees. A white shirt with a burgundy stain across the front that I’m just pretending looks natural. Makeup slightly smeared, but still effective at adding drama to my dark eyes and pale skin. Long black hair, a little messy but free of frizz. Lips still holding a light scarlet stain.
Not bad, Maren. Not my best, but not my worst.
I duck into a stall to do my business when someone else enters the shared bathroom. By the volume of their voices, I’d say they should probably be cut off.
“I don’t think he came here with her, but he was definitely into her,” one of the girls says. I can see them through the crack of the door, both dressed in tiny skirts and high heels. I keep quiet, unsure if they know someone else is in here.
“It probably means nothing. Women throw themselves at him all the time. You still have a shot at him.”
“Shut up,” the first girl laughs. “I like my guys with a little less money, thank you very much.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Yes, dumbass, she’s joking.
“Yes, Courtney, I’m joking. He’s just been occupied with that chick who apparently can’t hold her liquor. Did you see the wine stain all over her shirt?”
Well, shit. They’re talking about Mac and me. I’m definitely not exiting this stall now.
“Obviously you have a better shot than she does, Brittany. Just slip your number to him when she’s not looking. He’ll call, I know it.”
“I don’t know,” Brittany says. She’s fixing her lipstick, then turns to her friend who is now out of view. “But it would be a shame to use these perfect lips on anyone but Mac Dermot. By the way, did you hear he’s been selling off properties right and left? The guy is probably getting ready to buy an island or something. The latest was that huge apartment complex over on Beale Street.”
My heart drops at the mention of the street I live on. Of my apartment building I was just kicked out of.
“I mean, his face is plastered on that billboard across town, of course he’d be the agent who sold it. I bet his commission was huge.”
So that’s where I’ve seen his face before.
I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing he’s not the owner. He’s just the agent. But still, just knowing he had a hand in yanking the home out from under me changes everything.
“That place isn’t bad,” Courtney says. “I once knew someone who lived there, said it was the only place in town with reasonable rent. But I guess Mac Dermot sold it to someone who plans to tear the place down and make it a parking lot.”
That fucker. I feel like a fool. This whole night, I’ve been falling for the man who just sabotaged my whole life. While he was talking to me about choices and moving forward and holy ground, he was celebrating a big fat commission—with the money he got for the Beale Street apartment. He probably has enough for a dozen Salvatore Ferragamo watches to wear on his fancy yacht. And in a month, while I’m packing up to leave my house, he probably won’t even remember who I am.
I flush, then leave the stall, entering the sudden hush of the girls who have paused their preening to stare wide-eyed at me. I wash my hands, check my makeup, and give each of them a pointed look.