I took in the warmth of the café. The smell of coffee mixed with fresh baked, warm bread; Darla was smiling at a customer at the bar while she refilled his mug; Dorris and Chuck were were clanging and banging in the kitchen where the smell of grease sometimes came from. There was always something different, yet oddly familiar, about this place when I came in. Today, the paint–that really faded blue–was more vivid, deeper, somehow. Darla and Jesse’s uniforms were darker–more black–and Jesse’s seemed to fit his body a little better…not that I even really noticed that sort of thing. Even Macy–who couldn’t help but flirt with all the guys–seemed happier today. She was perkier and–dare I say it–prettier. The full sunlight that broke through the thick gray clouds gave the whole café-diner a more peaceful vibe. It was chill…I think.
Then Preston cleared his throat, which meant that he was really there, and I wasn’t just having another nightmare.
“Did you really take the time to write this, type it up, print it, and make copies?”
I couldn’t help the roll of my eyes or the sigh that escaped my lungs.
There he really was, Preston Whitaker, in all of his old money glory. His curls looked tighter and even more unruly today, which made him look younger–a little more childish maybe. It didn’t help that, today, he wasn’t smirking or brooding, but he was full on grinning like a toddler who’d gotten the biggest bowl of chocolate ice cream. The gold in his eyes was standing out against the green ferociously–vibrant was the word I wanted to use. But even with all the boyish charm stuck on this young man he still oozed preppy and uptight. His sweater matched his socks (navy), his khakis were freshly ironed (those creases were just too neat), and his leather coat and shoes barely had a drop of water on them (he was dropped off at the door). Preppy.
“Hello? Earth to Georgiana?”
I rolled my eyes again. “It’s just George.”
“Fine,” he shrugged. “George, did you really spend your weekend writing this?”
It was my turn to shrug, “Maybe I did. Why does it matter?”
“George, you’re a 19–”
“Almost 20–”
“Year old girl that’s in her second semester at a state university riding on a full scholarship. You need to be out there having a little fun.”
I watched his long, slightly rough-looking fingers slide the contract back to the middle of the table. Did he play an instrument? He could totally play the piano.
“George!” His long fingers snapped in front of my face. “Look,” he leaned back into the booth, “I’ll sign whatever you want me to sign, but this has to look legit.”
Propping my chin on my right hand, I began tugging on my bottom lip. His smile had lessened so I knew he was serious. He was also right, which I hated admitting. My heart began to speed up a little. There was so much more at stake than he even knew about.
“Would you stop that?” He rubbed a hand down his face.
“Stop what?”
“That!” He gestured to my face, “Stop playing with your lip like that–it’s distracting.”
I felt my cheeks grow warm, “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. “Look, I only wrote a few terms and conditions here. No PDA–besides hugging or possible handholding, no pet names–especially not Anna, no pictures, and no being seen together unless Whitney is around.”
Preston’s eyes glazed over while I was talking. Typical. But I knew he wouldn’t listen to me if I spoke longer than ten seconds. It didn’t matter. He just needed to sign the stupid paper.
“More coffee?”
The black button up was suddenly showing much more muscle and definition in Jesse’s arms than it had a couple of weeks ago.
“Sure,” I pushed my mug towards the carafe he was holding. “Thanks, Jesse.”
He winked as he stepped away not even bothering to ask Preston.
“So…” The roof of my mouth burned as I gulped down the scalding liquid, “Will you please sign it?”
“This is a lot more trouble than I thought it would be. Not to mention the fact that you’re way more boring than Iz led on.” Preston’s smirk was stating to show.
“I am not boring.”
My butt moved closer to the edge of the seat so I could keep my tone harsh but quiet.
“Uh huh, sure.” The smirk was in full display as his hands came to rest behind his too perfect–awfully wringable–neck.
“I’m not.” I ground out between tight lips.
The nerve of him!
“Then tell me, little librarian dressed wannabe, what do you do simply for fun?” His words came out slow and deliberate–like the smirk on his face–they were a trap, and I was the one falling into it.
***AU NOTE***
HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS LITTLE SCENE FROM A SHORT STORY I’M ATTEMPTING TO FINISH!
The Plotting Wanderer 