What the hell are you doing here?
This wasn't the first time in the last five minutes that Conlan had asked himself the same question. Maybe if he had an answer, the revolving door in his brain would stop spinning, but that didn't seem likely. Not anytime soon. Not with the beautiful brunette he'd come to see sitting close enough that, if he let himself look, he could detect the light dusting of freckles across her nose. But he wasn't looking, and he shouldn't be here, so how had he ended up standing in line behind the thirtysomething latte league? It sure as hell wasn't for the coffee.
Legs braced wide, he shifted from one hip to the other, the creak of his motorcycle chaps reminding him he could be enjoying a few extra minutes on the Harley before work instead of spending that precious time here, mooning over a woman. Doe Eyes. The first time he'd seen her all those months ago, he'd thought her eyes reminded him of sweet Georgia pecans and skittish does. The name stuck, as had the memory of her eyes—and a hundred other glimpses he shouldn't have taken.
Another name called, another latte dispensed, another shuffle forward.
He hadn't seen those eyes in eight weeks, and yet still he'd shown up every Monday, like clockwork, hoping for one more glimpse and calling himself an idiot. Wasn't like he planned on asking her out. So why the hell did he torture himself with these weekly forays into enemy territory?
Sex. Or sex appeal, at least.
Another step closer to the counter. The move didn't ease the constriction behind the zipper of his jeans. This was what she did to him, thinking about her. Especially now, after so long apart.
The thought had a snort escaping. Ahead of him, Mr. Suit and Tie startled and glanced over a shoulder, but Conlan ignored the look. He was too busy figuring out when "this" had become enough like a relationship in his head that he would think things like "after so long apart." Doe Eyes might appear prominently in his thoughts from time to time—especially certain times—but he'd never seen her outside of this coffee shop. And he wouldn't. A quick roll in the hay was one thing, but Doe Eyes wasn't the kind of woman who had one—night stands. He could tell that much just by looking at her. She was a relationship kind of woman, and he was a relationship—phobic kind of guy. Which meant he seriously needed to get a grip—and not on the part of him growing even harder at the idea.
Idiot was right.
He should be at work. Southern summer heat brought out the crazies almost as well as full moons did, and JCL Security was feeling the impact, juggling cases like they had eight arms, which they didn't. Too many sleepless nights had been spent at his office, especially with the Bennett case coming up. Just a couple more weeks before Thea Bennett had her bastard of a husband before a judge and hopefully out of her life, but the paper— and prep work to get the high—profile bastard there had been a bitch. He seriously needed to—
"Conlan, hey!"
For a passing moment he was convinced the voice belonged to the woman filling his thoughts. But when the high, candied voice called again, he realized it was coming from the counter. The cashier. Tonya, Tammy? Tracy? He couldn't remember. She was blonde with a deep tan he would've deemed impossible in a landlocked city like Atlanta, the shade a stark contrast to her white smile. Stepping up, he threw her a grin. "Hey."
She batted long lashes, almost hiding the way her glance slid down to the crotch of his jeans, framed in his leather chaps. "Long time, no see."
He winked automatically. "It's a long wait between Mondays."
The girl giggled. "Your usual?"
"That's right. Thanks," he said, passing over a ten—dollar bill.
She made change, certain to caress his hand as she laid the money in his palm. Conlan was more interested in the dark Colombian roast another employee was walking toward them. High—octane all the way. The sight of the near—black brew had him salivating for something other than Doe Eyes for the first time that morning.
He reached the condiment counter just as his phone buzzed in his back pocket. Probably Jack. Retrieving the cell confirmed his suspicion.
Where the hell are you? his partner had texted.
Piss off, Con replied, a grin tugging at his lips. The irony that he'd spent too much time asking himself the very same question didn't escape him. In a half hour he'd be at the office and they could both stop wondering.
With a little back—and—forth he managed to cram the phone back in his tight jeans. He glanced around absently, and his gaze snagged on a pair of amber—brown eyes that suddenly met his.
He froze.
Doe Eyes dropped her chin and shifted over the slightest bit, enough that her friend's position blocked her from view, but not before he caught the blush coloring her creamy cheeks.
His cock banged against his zipper as if begging to be let out. The bite of pain caught his breath in his throat. Jesus, what the hell was he—
Don't! Ask. Again. He knew what the hell he was doing here, and he needed to go; he really did. He needed to stop letting his dick run this show, grab his coffee, and get back to reality.
He was restless, that was all. He was a man who needed action. Needed to be doing something, anything, not sitting behind a desk like he'd been for weeks while prepping Thea's case. Usually he worked off his frustration in a way that involved cool silk sheets and bare skin and satisfaction on both sides, but there'd been no damn time. Just his hand and the additional chafing it provided, which wasn't near as effective—or satisfying. That had to be the reason he couldn't stop thinking about his mystery woman.
Of course. That had to be it.
Popping the lid off his cardboard cup released the rich aroma of ground coffee beans into the air. He lifted his cup and blew across the hot liquid, the sound almost a sigh of relief. He was already reaching for the packets of sugar when black squiggles caught his eye. There. On the part of the paper sleeve now facing him, he could see a name and number were clearly written: Tiffany. A 470 area—code phone number.
So that was her name. Sounded like an eighties pop star. A glance over his shoulder found the cashier leaning across the bar where drinks were picked up, her mounded breasts shelved there, on display. Come back soon, she mouthed, her shoulders doing a little wiggle. On reflex, he threw her a grin, but her seemingly seductive move couldn't pull his glance downward. His dick didn't even twitch. Apparently only one thing could trigger his runaway libido this morning.
He added the sugar, trying to ignore the panic in his gut and his one—track mind. The latter was impossible. He wanted to know Doe Eyes' name, her phone number. Were her breasts as full as they looked beneath that starched white button—down? Was her hair as soft as he swore it would be when he fisted it between his fingers?
He stirred a bit too vigorously, and coffee sloshed over the side of the cup.
Don't look. Don't. He realized he'd closed his eyes. A sigh escaped as he rubbed a thumb and finger against them, but as soon as the lids popped open, he searched for her. Had to see her. Felt his heartbeat pick up knowing she might meet his eyes.
He was so screwed—and smart enough to admit it. He let go, let the conflict and the churning in his gut and the tension cramping his muscles go. And then he looked toward her table.
It was empty.
"Well shit."
He stood for a moment, cursing himself, the coffee, and everything else he could think of. When another customer stepped up behind him and cleared his throat, wanting access to the counter, Con grabbed his cup and headed out the door. On his way, he chucked the coffee in the trash without a single sip.
