To See You
Love at Center Court Series
The Electric Tunnel Series
Crossroads Series
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For My Electric Readers –
I wouldn’t be here today without you (I don’t care if it’s a ridiculously cliché thing to say). We’re a crazy crew—young and old, American and not, curvy and slender, with long hair and short. But we all love ankle boots and doughnuts, and most importantly, we love one another.
No judgment. Only conversation, support, and a common love of reading.
Thank you for the steady encouragement and daily friendship. You hang, read, share, write reviews, and most of all, believe in my words and me.
We have shared many milestones together, happy occasions and sad. Here’s to many, many more.
This is for you.
And for Nicole –
Who is really my better half, my way better half. The more organized one.
Thank you for decoding my choppy e-mails and sending me reminders and, well . . . just about everything.
Hope to see your smile again—real soon.
What is it about this guy?
On paper, he’s one hundred percent wrong for me. His e-mails are equal parts annoying and funny.
Okay, more funny than annoying. More like refreshing. Different. Exciting.
But as I stand next to him now, he’s giving me head-to-toe tingles, and I find myself dwelling on his e-mails.
Meet smart, sexy career girl and New York snob, Charli Richards. She has everything except happiness until the day she meets Layton Griffin. It’s a random encounter on an airplane; it couldn’t mean anything, right?
Layton isn’t even remotely close to who Charli sees herself hooking up with . . . ever. Her mom and best friend agree he’s not for her, but he makes her feel something exciting, awakens her world.
But then Layton changes, going to great lengths for Charli to see him for who he really is.
Will those changes bring them closer together, or will she never be able to see him in the same way again?
I
half sat, half leaned at the bar waiting for her. It was an overpriced, cliché hole-in-the-wall in Manhattan she’d suggested.
Best burgers in New York
, she’d written in her e-mail. She’d assumed I’d want something big and heavy to eat, overselling the place to me and avoiding the fat fucking elephant in the room.
Which was me, so I didn’t take the burger suggestion as a slight. I deserved that one. Especially after the sushi debacle.
But I wasn’t one bit hungry for burgers—not tonight. To be honest, I was famished for her. I was so fucking starving for this woman, I’d gone without an apology, showed up like a good little puppy without even as much as an apologetic whisper. No
sorry
or a single freaking misgiving about what had happened the last time we saw each other. Zip.
Now I sat in the bar area like one of those big whales at Sea World, waiting in line for a dead fish. It was dingy and dimly lit, but the Yelpers loved this joint. Of course I’d googled it, making sure I was hip enough to show my face in the establishment.
Impatient, I swirled the Scotch in my tumbler, the ice clinking against the glass. Out of habit, I pulled my shirt down at the waist, making sure it covered my waistband. It was a habit I still couldn’t quite shake. I’d worn a waffle-knit shirt and khakis, the new trendy kind, elastic at the ankle and a drawstring at the waist—all the bells and whistles.
I wasn’t sure why I felt like I had to forgo my usual look. The only other times we’d met up, I’d been wearing a music tee and jeans. Except for the premiere, but tonight was different from the other times . . . I hoped. That assumption was probably false and premature on my part.
As I took a sip of my drink, the liquid burned the back of my throat and warmed me all the way going down, heightening my arousal and calming my nerves at the same time.
Tiny bells chimed above the door, signaling it was opening—a touch that was out of place for New York City, but I assumed it was part of the charm of this joint.
She stepped over the threshold, shaking the snow off her now longer hair before swiping her gloved hand down the front of her coat. I saw a hint of red peeking out from underneath her black coat, reminding me it was just past Valentine’s Day, making me wish I’d come earlier in the month. She could have been
mine
.
She still hadn’t seen me, so I indulged in a second or ten, allowing my gaze to roam her small frame all the way down to the fur-lined ankle boots . . . with a heel . . . on her feet.
Unable to get up or move toward her for fear she’d reject me all over again, I turned back toward the bar and caught the score of a basketball game on TV while tossing back the remainder of my Scotch. I felt her presence singe the back of my neck before she laid eyes on me.
Willing myself not to turn and seek her out, I ran a hand through my hair and mentally chastised myself.
You pussy
.
Just look at the woman.
My hair was styled the same, so she should recognize me from the back. At least, that’s the sorry excuse I gave myself . . .
