Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
But what gets me most is when she reaches the corner. It’s almost imperceptible—just a quick glance over her shoulder—but I see it. She steals a final glance at me.
Yes. Fuck yes.
It was a breadcrumb, and I will take it. Follow it. And devise a plan.
I pump a mental fist, then haul Dolly inside High Kick Coffee, past chattering customers camped out at tables and a handful of people waiting to place their orders. Birdie has plenty of employees here to tend to them, but she opened a coffee shop because she likes people as much as she likes bling. In typical Birdie fashion, everything in High Kick Coffee sparkles, from the countertops to the mirrors on the walls to the clock with a woman’s leg kicking back and forth to keep time.
I prop Dolly out of the way behind the counter as my grandmother starts an espresso for me. “Tell me the brunette with the flower tattoos is a regular,” I say, thoughts still centered on the woman who’s gotten away for now.
“Why? Are you in love already?” Birdie teases with a knowing grin.
“More like insta-infatuation,” I admit, leaning on the counter. “But sure, call it love.”
Birdie’s smile widens. “The woman with the flower tattoos is a photographer. We’re working together soon.” She gestures to her old showgirl photos hanging behind the counter—pictures of her kicking her leg high while wearing spangled bikinis and feathered headdresses. “Time to update the pics, don’t you think?”
I try to imagine Grandma dusting off her sequins and feathers to recreate her glory days on the Vegas stage. Is she serious about the photo shoot? She did insist I drag Dolly all the way from her home to her coffee shop after this morning’s practice. When my grandmother has a vision, I wouldn’t put anything past her.
“New photos sound great.” I lean my elbows on the counter in an oh-so-casual way. “Especially if you let me know when you’re doing them.”
“We haven’t picked a date yet.”
“But you will,” I predict.
“I will,” she says with a sly smile. “Eager much?”
I shrug. “I know what I like. What’s her name?”
“Leighton,” Birdie says. “She comes in about once a week.”
“Leighton,” I echo, enjoying the sound of it. “Perfect. I’d hate to miss her, so I guess I’ll be stopping by every day till I ask her out.”
Birdie laughs, shaking her head. “You were always my most determined grandchild. Now, be a dear and put Dolly by the door. She has a job to do.”
“Right.” I carry the mannequin to the front where she can welcome customers to High Kick Coffee—where the caffeine comes with an extra kick.
Before I duck back into the shop, I sneak one last look up the street.
You’ll be back, Leighton, and so will I.
I return to the counter as Birdie steps around the counter to the stool I always sit in.
“How was practice?” she asks, eyeing me over the steaming espresso she slides my way.
“Great,” I say, pride surging through me. “Playing better than ever.”
“You’ve worked so hard. I’m not surprised,” Birdie says.
“I think it’s more that I have the best coach.” I owe Coach everything. I’m still grateful for the chance he gave me when my career was circling the drain a couple years ago. My last team let me go, and for a while there, I was sure my hockey days were done.
Now, everything’s looking up—and has been for my last couple of seasons with the Sea Dogs.
Especially with my future wife coming back next week.
So I can buy her a cup of tea and hear more of her opinions.
2
VERITABLE STUD
Leighton
Does High Kick Coffee grow hot guys? There are at least six seriously attractive men in this bustling coffee shop, with its retro vibe and mid-century sophisticated playlist of Cole Porter tunes and Ella Fitzgerald jazz standards. Something my dad would listen to when he’s alone in his office. He has such Dad taste.
And let’s not forget that gorgeous guy with the opinions and the showgirl mannequin. His heated eyes and cocky smile have been living rent-free in my head for three days.
Okay, where is the guy I’m meeting? None of the cuties here match the photo of the model I hired to pose with my new client, Katrina, this afternoon. His name is Crash and he fit the bill for the client—young, sexy, and confident—a veritable stud. He even sent me a video saying, “I’ll make Katrina feel like a queen.”
Sold.
I hired him for her first boudoir shoot since she divorced her lying, cheating, conniving scumbag of a husband who banged the babysitter.
Her words.
Mine were Thank you for trusting me with your pics.
I also promised her I’d meet with the model before I photograph them together later today. Just to make sure he’s not a dick.
I whip out my phone, scrolling through Crash’s photos as I shuffle into the line to grab a tea and figure out which guy I’ll be paying today. That’s when my phone rings—directly in my ears of course.