Chapter Four
Marisa
“#1 Crush”- Garbage
My Facebook dings with a notification.Need some writing fuel. #Coffee #AmWriting #AllTheFuckingWords.
I quickly slip on my Chuck Taylors, grab my laptop, my purse, and run to the door. I hurry down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk. The coffee shop is half a block down, right on the corner of my street—of mine and Justin’s street. By the time I stop at the crosswalk, my shirt is sticking to my back. The heat radiates up from the asphalt in squiggly waves and I curse it. The crosswalk light changes and I rush across the street, slamming the entire weight of my body against the door. The bell tinkers when I walk in and I breathe a sigh of relief as the cool air wraps around me. I put my computer on a table right by the register, then I order a Vanilla Latte and go back to my seat, open Word, and attempt to write because today is the day. Justin Wild is going to be here any minute, and I want him to see me writing. A year ago an interview inCosmopolitansaid Justin’s dream girl would have a knack for writing and so, here I am—writing. Writing stories with seamless endings...
My heart’s flittering nervously in my chest because I’ve bypassed 13 coffee shop visits over the past three weeks. Twenty-one days have come and gone, 504 hours we could have spent together wasted, but everything must be picture-perfect. To make this entire author bullshit believable, I needed to show him I’ve been working on my book for a while. I needed enough words to make this believable. 60,000. I told myself 60,000. I glance down at the word count in the left-hand side of my window. 61,234. I’ll give Justin credit; this entire writing process is much harder than I thought. Not that I thought it would necessarily be easy, but good God, talk about time consuming.
I take a sip of my Vanilla Latte and the bell on the door dings and…there he is. My pulse skips. I hold my breath for a fleeting moment. Taller, Justin’s so much taller than I thought. Cut jawline, defined nose, full lips. A perfectly manicured five o'clock shadow. My eyes drift over his body.Jesus Christ.His massive chest is straining against that black t-shirt. The sleeves squeeze his defined biceps—hisverydefined biceps covered in a hodgepodge of tattoos. Twocompletesleeves of ink, my literary genius has that bad boy edge that drive most women crazy.God, I’m a lucky woman, Justin. I’m so lucky. His Great Dane, Cobain, trots in behind him, his gray coat gleaming underneath the lights.
“Hey Justin. Hey Cobain,” the barista calls out. My gaze darts over to the counter and I glare at her and her plain face and her dirty blonde hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. One of the customers stops and pets Cobain on the head before heading out.
“You know you are the only person we’ll let in here with a dog…” blondie says, grinning.
“We appreciate that, don’t we Cobain?” Justin smiles at the barista.
I keep typing then glancing up, watching him fiddle with his phone, watching Cobain scratch.Type. Look up. Type. Type. Look up.When he hands his card to the girl her hand brushes his and she, of course, blushes. He doesn’t pay her any attention, just steps to the side—to the side right next to my table—while he waits for his coffee. He’s so close, I could reach out and touch him if I wanted. I bite down on my lip, rehearsing what I’ll say to him, and then, he glances at me. His eyes are so blue and deep and perfect. Those eyes are the window to the soul who gave me my favorite book. They are the eyes of a literary genius. Of my soulmate…
Justin smiles before taking a quick peek to the low cut Escape the Fate t-shirt that’s clinging to my perky tits…that’s right, Justin, I’m into the same edgy, non-mainstream bands you are into…then that smile deepens. "Yeah, ready," he says.
Even though my nerves are bubbling in my gut, I manage to maintain eye contact with him while I take another sip of my drink. It’s barely a quarter of the way empty, but I need to walk past him, so I stand. I put a little sway in my hips as I head to the overflowing trash bin and toss the cardboard cup away. I smile, bite down on my lip, and lift my eyes to his before walking back to my table, sitting, and going right back to my document, typing away like he doesn’t even exist. Because I know him. Iknowhim, and to him,thisis a game, and I swear to God, I’ll make him want to play.
“Justin,” the barista calls out.
Seconds pass before I peek over the top of my computer. He’s making his way to my table, coffee in hand, Cobain in tow. My heart hammers in my chest. That tell-tell heat creeps over my cheeks when he pulls out the chair across from me. “Mind if I sit down?” he asks, although he’s already sinking onto the metal chair. The dog plops down beside the table, resting his head in Justin’s lap. And then, Justin grins and that grin in and of itself is enough to make any woman bend to his every whim. I shrug, and he laughs.
“I’m Justin.” He holds out his hand and my eyes drop to his open palm. I want to touch him, to see how soft his skin is beneath mine, but I keep my fingers hoovering over my keyboard.
“Marisa.” I say dryly.
He takes a sip of his coffee—Caramel Macchiato, if I had to guess, he loves those—and his eyes narrow on me, swirling with curiosity. The air between us thickens. There is a fog of electricity swirling between us, charged in a way comparable only to the thick electric static that hangs heavy in the air before a summer storm, and people like that—people like us—we aren't just thrown together haphazardly. “You live on Water Street, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yep. Just moved in a week or so ago.”
“I thought you looked familiar. I think I saw you a few days back when I was out walking Cobain here.” He pats the dog on the head.
“Maybe I just have a familiar face.” I type a few words…then look back up.
“No, you don’t.” Laughing, Justin places both elbows on the table, crossing his arms as he leans toward me, smirking. "You're very stunning, Marisa.”
My pulse goes into overdrive and I fight the heat threatening to consume my entire face and sell me out. I laugh and lock eyes with him. "Thanks.”
“What’s that?” he asks, pointing at my laptop.
“Well, they call it a computer.”
“Oh, and a smartass, too, huh?”
“I write, well,” I laugh, “I’m attempting to write.”
“No shit.” His face lights up.Oh, Justin, look how perfect I am for you already.“Me too,” he says. “How much until your finished?”
“Oh, just finishing up edits.”
“Can I read it?” He reaches for my laptop and I pull it away from him, lifting a brow. He throws his hands up. “Sorry. I just get excited when I meet other authors.” Justin leans back in his seat, cupping his coffee with both hands, waiting on me to pry, but I won’t. I just glance back down to my keyboard and type. He clears his throat. “Justin Wild, ever read him?” I glance up. “That’s me,” he says.
