But maybe I was the only one who crazily, creepily (it had to be said) semi-stalked him by hanging at out Rachelle’s Café simply to catch a glimpse of him.
Okay, so maybe it was more than just to catch a glimpse of him.
It was silly, but I couldn’t let go of the hope that one day he’d walk in, look at me, smile and maybe pop by my table to have a chat where I would boggle his mind with my brilliance. I’d charm him with my manner. Then he’d ask me out on a date. At the end of which, maybe, hopefully, I’d finally be able to touch his hair (amongst other things).
This never happened.
A couple of times, those beautiful eyes of his looked through me. Once, embarrassingly, I didn’t move my gaze fast enough when he glanced through the café and he caught me studying him.
But he just gave me a chin lift and looked away.
That was it.
He did seem to have a lot on his mind. He never came to the café to hang out, eat lunch, anything like that. He usually moved through, always grinning at his sister if she was around, heading straight to the back room and disappearing.
This was, of course, intriguing; why he’d come to the café and disappear.
Then again, everything about Raiden Miller was intriguing.
It also meant that he didn’t hang out to eat, and perchance, gaze about the room and fall madly in love with me.
And at that moment, I was realizing this was also not going to happen that day. I’d been there a while. It was getting late and I rarely saw him there late.
So I grabbed my purse and tossed down enough money to cover the check lying on the table, including a generous tip. Should a miracle occur and Raiden finally notice me, buttering up his sister with big tips wasn’t a bad thing. She was a year ahead of me in high school. We’d known each other since forever and she already liked me, as I did her.
It also was earned. Her food and service were both stellar.
I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair, shrugged it on and looped my purse on my shoulder.
“Later Hanna!” Rachelle called as I moved toward the front door.
“Later!” I called back, throwing a smile her way and putting my hand to the door.
I pushed it open, went out onto the sidewalk, did a routine scan of the street and stopped dead.
Raiden was across the street standing beside his Jeep, making out with a very pretty, skinny-minnie, petite, big-haired, large-chested blonde.
My breath caught in my throat and my stomach churned.
She had high-heeled boots on, but still, she was so petite he was deeply bent into her. They were in a serious clinch. The only way I could see she had big breasts was because her clothes were skintight, her jacket was open and I could see one pushed out the side where it was pressed in his chest.
Oh God.
God!
She was skanky and I could tell this, too, what with the high-heeled boots (which weren’t normal-person fashionable, they were skank fashionable), skintight clothes and big hair, but also, even in profile and across the street I could see she had on a lot of blusher and thick foundation.
But she was one of those skanky skanks who looked cool. Who worked her skankedness. Who made skankdom something you’d consider aspiring to.
Not to mention, her skankedness got her in a clinch with Raiden Ulysses Miller.
And he looked no less fabulous than he always looked. Tight-fitting long-sleeved thermal over cargo pants and boots, his shades pushed up into his amazing hair. No jacket, as if his level of testosterone was so high he didn’t feel the cold.
God.
God!
I tore my eyes away, and blind, my stomach feeling hollow, I moved by rote to my SUV, swung in and luckily made it home without incident.
Though I didn’t know how.
Because that hurt.
It hurt.
Oh God, why did it hurt so much?
Still battling what I knew was a self-inflicted wound, I got into my house and went directly to my girlie, frou-frou, countrified splendor living room. I sat cross-legged on my couch, stared at nothing and felt the pain.
Time passed by and finally it came to me.
I knew what it was.
I knew it was like when you crushed on an actor or some athlete and you found out he was single and you let yourself have crazy dreams that one day he’d run into you and fall head over heels.
Then you’d find out he got married, or got someone pregnant and then (maybe) got married, and your fantasy would die.
And it hurt when fantasies died.
A lot.
But that was exactly what it was.
The death of a fantasy.
Raiden Ulysses Miller was not a famous actor or athlete, but still.
He would never be mine.
I knew this because he was into women who could make skanky cool.
Big-haired, blonde, skinny-minnie, big-chested, petite women who could make skanky cool.
I had nice hair. It shone with health, it was thick and it was one shade up from blonde, but it wasn’t big.
And I had an ample chest, but not that ample.