And of course, the ridiculous girl inside me says, This isn’t exactly a story we can tell our grandchildren about how we reunited.
We are not having grandchildren, Greer! We’re having no children. We’re not even a we.
I keep sneaking sideways glances at Cav as we eat. His jawline is covered in just enough scruff to make me wonder what it would feel like against my thighs.
Abort, Greer. Abort. I’ve got to stop thinking that way about him.
Memories from the first time I spotted him filter through my brain . . .
Who is that guy? His navy blue work pants fit his thick thighs and tight ass to perfection. Every other man I’d ever seen in those kind of pants—the ones with the bar code patch on the waistband for the cleaning company to scan that peeked out from beneath a heavy canvas belt—had a flat man-ass or a plumber’s crack that no one ever wanted to see.
But not this guy. The blue-gray work shirt made his eyes appear steel gray. The sleeves were rolled up over thick, corded forearms, revealing words inked along his golden-brown skin.
I glanced around to see if anyone else in the café noticed my detailed survey of the hottest maintenance man on the planet, but all I could see was the other girls’ eyes glued to him. Nope, I wasn’t the only person to notice him.
His dark hair was buzzed short and a sexy five o’clock shadow shaded his jaw, even though it was only noon. His broad shoulders and narrow waist probably had us all thinking the same thing—if there was a God in heaven, this man was actually a stripper and not the maintenance man, and we were about to get the greatest show of our lives when he tore that shirt off. From beneath the unbuttoned collar, I caught a glimpse of a white wife beater. Add in the tool bag he carried and my fantasies were spinning wildly out of control.
“Dibs,” Tracey whispered to me as we flipped through our flash cards for our Secured Transactions class.
I was supposed to know what a purchase-money security interest was, but all I could think about was the guy ordering something from the barista a dozen feet away from me. Black coffee, that was my guess. He didn’t look the type to order anything so feminine as a latte or a cappuccino. Nor did he seem like the double espresso type.
“What did you say?” My attention shifted reluctantly from what he was ordering to my friend.
Tracey tossed her flash cards on the table. “Never mind. I rescind my dibs. Honestly, I wouldn’t know what to do with that much man, even in my dreams.”
I grab the flash card on the top of the pile, forcing my brain back into study mode. “Purchase-money security interest. That’s what we need to be talking about. Professor Payne is going to call on me. I feel it.”
Tracey groaned. “It’s not your day; it’ll be mine. I feel it. Fuck the Socratic method so hard.”
She grabbed the rest of the cards and read off the elements of a purchase-money security interest. I completely tuned her out as the guy came toward us and his gaze collided with mine.
Holy hell. I felt it rake over my skin and take in every detail of my appearance. I was wearing skinny jeans, tall boots, and a sweater. My hair was falling down around my shoulders, and I was on the verge of pulling it back into a messy bun. I was glad I hadn’t yet, though.
Why did I even care? He was no one to me. But I wanted him to be.
“Greer, did you get that?”
“Huh?”
Tracey tossed the flash cards down again and wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. She watched me as she brought it to her lips. “You’re totally eye-fucking that guy and not using a single brain cell for Secured Trans.”
I jerked my gaze away from his and back to Tracey. “Uh, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just . . . you know. What?”
The incoherent babbling gave me away. Or my complete and utter lack of subtlety. But dammit, the guy was hot and nothing like the Polo-shirt-wearing boys I went to school with. Their arms and shoulders did not look like that. Who knew a work uniform could be so dang sexy? And there I went again.
“Sorry. Secured Trans. Purchase-money security interest requires . . .” and I rattled off the elements.
Tracey’s eyes widened. “I hate that you’re so smart sometimes. You haven’t been paying attention at all, and you still know exactly what you need to know. Finish your eye-fucking and let’s get to class.”
“Greer,” Cav says, and from his tone, it sounds like it isn’t the first time he said my name.
I shake my head and drag myself into the present, to the man sitting beside me who has haunted my thoughts for years.
“What’d you say?”
“Something wrong with the food? You on a hunger strike?”
I look down at my plate. I’ve only taken one bite, and the rest of the omelet is untouched.
“No. No, it’s fine. I’m just . . . processing what the hell is going on here. I didn’t exactly expect . . .”
“Me to show up at your door?”
I sneak another sideways glance and take in his raised eyebrow and the huge bite he shovels into his mouth. His omelet is three times the size of mine and almost gone. How the man can eat that much and still be so ripped is beyond me.
“Yeah.” I dig my fork into my own food, even though my stomach is a jumble of nerves right now and I don’t actually know how much I can eat.
“Well, what the fuck did you expect me to do when I saw the posts about the ad? You weren’t exactly subtle.”
I chew my light, fluffy eggs and bacon—mmm, bacon—as I consider my answer. I choose the truth. “I didn’t expect you to remember me. You’re a Hollywood big shot, and I’m the girl you stood up years ago.”