“Sorry! ‘Scuse me! Coming through, please!” It’s like running an obstacle course in heels.
I dodge through the crowd, trying not to think about the frazzled and sloppy impression I’m going to make. In the meantime, I force myself to focus on the beauty of this city: the long shadows of the tallest buildings, the modern architecture, the sunlight reflected and refracted off a thousand windows, the blue sky beyond. I love San Francisco, even though right now it is not loving me back.
One. More. Block. So. Close. I can almost see the brass carvings and scrolled handles on the thick auction house doors as I cross Gold Street and round the corner…and smash right into the muscular chest of a man coming from the crosswalk.
I shriek at the same time he says, “Whoa, there,” like he’s a cowboy, except he’s as posh and polished as can be. He holds his coffee cup out in front of him like a bomb and I see the brown liquid dripping down his blue tie and white shirt.
“Oh my God!” I grab some clean tissues out of my bag. “Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for his tie, but he’s already shaking it out. Luckily, most of the drink seems to be splattered on the concrete.
“It’s fine,” he says, catching my hand. “There was too much sugar in that latte anyway.” He looks at me as our fingers touch, his eyes flecked with shifting shades of blue like Van Gogh’s night sky and just as mesmerizing. I want to paint them, but then I remember my priorities.
“I’m sorry about the spill, but I really have to go.” I check my watch. “I’m running late for an important meeting.” I start to turn away, feeling guilty, but his voice stops me.
“So this is a run-by coffee-ing, then?” He has an accent. British. Sexy.
I turn back, unable to keep from checking him out again. He has a mouth that looks like it was carved by Michelangelo, perfectly shaped lips that smile at me and highlight the sharp cheekbones as sculpted as the famous David’s. It’s like his face belongs in a museum. Whoa, there. “Should I call the police?” he asks.
I smile despite my hurry, sure that my face is turning strawberry red. I’d love to stay and flirt with this gorgeous man, but there’s no time. “Look,” I say, backing away. “If you give me your card, I’ll happily pay for the cleaning bill, but I really do have to run.”
He falls in step beside me like we’re old friends. “Oh, no,” he says, loosening his tie as he easily matches my sprint. “Don’t you worry about this old thing. I’ve been meaning to donate it.” He tosses it in a trash can as we speed down the sidewalk and I can’t help but notice the triangle of smooth chest showing now that he’s unbuttoned his collar.
“It mostly missed my shirt, which is good because the public tends to frown on shirtless businessmen.”
I imagine him shirtless and almost walk into a mailbox.
“That was a joke,” he says, smiling.
Over the smell of salty sea air and car exhaust I catch the fresh, soapy clean scent of him. “Oh,” I say, avoiding a pothole, and thinking that no one would frown at that body. “Funny.”
“This meeting must be a big deal,” he says. “If you’re too distracted to converse with a handsome man.”
“It really is,” I say, separating from him just long enough to weave around a woman walking a poodle. “Life-changing actually. It’s a job interview at Carringer’s.”
“Ouch,” he says, putting a hand on his heart in mock anguish. “Not going to bite on the handsome line?”
“Oh!” Flushed, party of one, please. Thank God for the cool air. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—”
“So you’re admitting you do think I’m handsome?”
“I admit nothing,” I say, laughing.
He grins. “My kind of girl.”
I stop to catch my breath as we arrive at the gorgeous fa?ade of the Carringer’s Auction House building. Time to bid farewell to Mr. Charming. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed to see him go.
He smiles at me face-to-face and oh dear God, he has actual dimples. “Good luck with the interview.”
“Thanks,” I say, my gaze flicking to my watch one last time. It’s 8:54.
“You’ll knock ‘em dead,” he says. I nod, trying to paste a confident smile on my face.
I face the doors I’ve been dreaming about opening for the last week—well really, for the last twenty years—and feel hopeful again. I have five minutes to get inside and pull my shit together so I can show these people what I’m made of.
One last thing first. “Are you sure I can’t replace that tie I ruined?”
“Tell you what,” he says, his eyes twinkling. “I’ll swing by here next week and if you’re working, you can buy me a coffee.”