by T. K. Leigh
Then a loud horn blares, pulling me back to the present. I instinctively tear my eyes open, expecting to still be on that asphalt. Except I’m not. I am flying, two strong arms cradling me against the storm.
Chapter Two
Weston
Adrenaline heats my veins as I dart across the busy crosswalk, breathing hard, the rain and wind thundering in my ears. The woman’s weight barely registers as I run to the safety of the coffee shop where I’d witnessed her fall.
Other patrons stare at me like I’m crazy for risking my life for a stranger, but I didn’t even think about that when I noticed her go down. All I saw was a woman who needed help. My grandparents taught me to never stand aside when someone is in need. So I didn’t.
Pushing past bystanders, whose only reaction to this woman’s fall was to grab their phones and film it, I return to my table and carefully set her into a chair, then sit beside her. The sound of grinding coffee beans and conversation fills the space, a stark contrast to the pounding of my heart from mere seconds ago, the outside world slowly returning to my awareness as rainwater drips from my body.
“Are you okay?” I ask, scanning her frame, looking for any sign of injury. I peer into her eyes, making sure her pupils aren’t dilated. I don’t think I saw her hit her head, but I can’t be certain in this weather.
She blinks, still disoriented. “I…” She trails off, her teeth chattering.
A chill washes over me, and I glance up to see we’re directly below an air vent. Normally, it’s refreshing compared to the stagnant humidity. But with our clothes soaked, it only serves to make its effects more prominent.
“Can you get me a green tea, please?” I call out to the barista behind the counter.
She nods and jumps into action. Smiling in thanks, I return my attention to the woman, her entire body trembling.
“You’re shivering.” Instinctively, I take her hands between mine and squeeze, trying to warm her the best I can without coming off like a creep.
“Th… Thank you,” she finally manages to say in a soft voice that seems to lack the typical Southern drawl I hear from people who’ve lived here most of their lives. Like me. “You… If you didn’t help me…”
“I saw you go down.” I glance out the window to the left. “When the light turned green…” I shake my head, hating to think what would have happened if I hadn’t chosen that precise moment to glance up from my phone to see her slip and land on her back. I’ve suffered falls like that. Know how they can knock the wind right out of you. It’s no wonder she was struggling to pull herself together in time to get out of the way of traffic.
The barista comes to our table and sets down a steaming cup. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I release her hands and slide the tea toward her. “Drink. The green tea should warm you up. And help calm your nerves.” I push out a laugh, running my fingers through my dark, rain-drenched hair. “It usually helps me.”
She wraps her dainty hands around the cup and lifts it to her mouth, blowing on it. I try not to stare as she takes a sip, but I can’t stop looking at her full, glossy lips. The adrenaline that coursed through me mere moments ago is suddenly replaced by something else. Something I haven’t felt in quite a while now. Something I didn’t think I’d ever feel again.
A spark.
It catches me off guard. I try to convince myself it’s the aftereffects of the anxiety from almost being flattened by the pickup as I pulled her to safety. But if that were the case, the rush of electricity running through me would dampen with time. Not get stronger the longer I remain in her presence.
“You’re right.” Her sweet voice cuts through, and I tear my gaze from her mouth. “It’s exactly what I need. Well, apart from a shot of whiskey or tequila.”
I chuckle. “I’d probably want more than a shot if I were you. What are you doing out in this weather in the first place? And without an umbrella?”
She sets the cup on the table. “I was heading to my car. It’s parked in the garage next door.”
“And you were in such a rush that you couldn’t wait for the storm to pass?”
She sighs. “I was just fired. The last thing I wanted was to spend any more time than necessary at my office.”
My smile wavers. “I’m sorry.”
“At this point, I’m used to it. June third is a notoriously horrible day for me. It makes sense that not only did I lose my job, but I also almost got flattened by a truck. Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day has nothing on me.”
“I remember that book.” My muscles relax as I recall my childhood memories. “My meemaw used to read it to me whenever I complained I was having a bad day. Said sometimes all we need is a little perspective to realize things aren’t as bad as they seem.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Do you think I just need perspective?”
I pause, leaning back in my chair as I ponder my response, which gives me the opportunity to fully drink in her appearance. Tight curls frame her oval face. Dark, soulful eyes. Perfect, heart-shaped lips. And a smattering of freckles running across the brown skin of her nose. She doesn’t wear much makeup, but she doesn’t need it. Doesn’t need to do anything to cover up her natural beauty.
“No,” I finally say, shaking my head. “I don’t think you need perspective. Do you remember the other, and in my opinion, more important lesson in that book?”
“What’s that?” She furrows her brow, no longer shivering. Instead, she angles toward me, completely engaged in our conversation as if we’re old friends, not the strangers we are.
“That even if things seem pretty bad, they can only get better. So you may be having a shitty day. But when you reach rock bottom, things can only go up.” I wink.
“You know…” She pinches her lips together as a contemplative look crosses her face, making my heart skip a beat. “I think they already are.”
“Is that right?”
“If you hadn’t helped me, they’d probably be scraping my body off the pavement right now. So thank you.” She grabs her cup once more, raising it in a toast before sipping her tea.
“I just did what any reasonable human would when seeing a person in need.”
“That’s not entirely true. These days, most people only care about themselves. Look around you.” She gestures at the other tables. I survey the dozen or so other patrons seeking shelter from the rain. “They barely take the time to look up from their cell phones, too focused on how many likes they got on their latest Instagram post or story.”
“Then I guess I’m not most people.”
“I guess you’re not.”
Silence stretches between us as I stare at her. I could drink her in for days and still not get my fill, something about her refreshing. In a world full of roses, she’s a sunflower, unique and filled with light.
I extend my hand toward her. “I’m Weston. Or Wes.”
She studies it cautiously, then places her own in mine. “Londyn.”
“Londyn.” My mouth tests how her name rolls off my tongue as I wrap my fingers around her delicate skin.
I study our joined hands, a dull vibration settling low in my belly. It’s only a handshake, something people do dozens of times a day, but the way the tiny hairs on my body stand on end, my heartbeat kicking up again, I know it’s not merely a handshake between two strangers. That an invisible tether draws me to her.
“Like the city?” Custom dictates I should drop my hold on her, but a larger force keeps my hand entwined with hers.
“Yes. But spelled with a y.”
“Well, Londyn with a y, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
I hold her gaze another moment, my pointer finger caressing the callouses on her palm, which only intrigues me even more. Most women I know wouldn’t be caught dead with so much as a scrape on their hands. But it’s obvious Londyn has no problem getting her hands dirty, so to speak. I’m about to ask about the job she just lost when she abruptly yanks
her hand from mine and shoots to her feet.
“I should go.”
“Go?” I stand, my six-two frame towering over her by at least a half foot, making me estimate her to be around five-eight. I glance out the window to see the downpour hasn’t let up at all. “It’s still raining.”
“I’ll be fine.” Reaching into her wallet, she pulls out a five-dollar bill. “Here.” She shoves it at me. “For the tea.”
I wave her off. “That’s not necessary.”
“I prefer not having any debts. I can’t repay you for saving my ass, as it were, but I can repay you for the tea. So here…” She sets the bill on the table. “Take it. Or put it in the tip jar. Better yet, give it to Omar.”
I scrunch my brows, unsure I heard her correctly. “Omar?”
“The homeless guy who’s always hanging out by the exit of the garage. I don’t care what you end up doing with the money. At least it will be off my tab.”
This woman becomes more captivating with every second. Since I moved back to Atlanta from Boston two years ago, not one person has admitted to knowing the name of the homeless guy I buy coffee and food for whenever I can. He’s the reason I came down to the coffee shop today. To get him something to keep him warm in this rain.
“Let me at least walk you,” I suggest. “Make sure you get to your car safely.”
She shakes her head, retreating from me and toward the front door. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. Luckily, there are no more unruly crosswalks between here and the garage.” She presses her palm against the door, about to push it open.
“Wait!” I call out in desperation, hating the idea of never seeing this woman again.
She stops, glancing over her shoulder, a single brow raised.
“Can I get your phone number?”
The entire shop goes silent, my question seeming to echo. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn’t have drawn so much attention to us, but I can’t ignore the feeling in my gut that I’ll regret letting her walk away.
“I-I mean…” I flounder, words escaping me now that I have her attention, as well as the attention of everyone else here. “To check on you.” My voice comes out assured. More assured than I feel inside. “I’d feel better if I can at least text to make sure you got home okay.”
Her gaze shifts from me as she chews on her lower lip. It’s just a phone number, but by the indecision filling the lines of her face, you’d think I asked her to pick her favorite Beatle or what three movies she’d take if she were abandoned on a deserted island.
Finally, she nods and reaches into her purse, shifting the contents around before retrieving a business card and handing it to me.
“Londyn Living?” I read.
“I up-cycle furniture,” she explains. “I find pieces that are in really bad shape but still have good bones and give them a second chance at life.”
That would explain the callouses.
“I’m familiar with the process,” I tell her, taking in the website and email, both of which have Londyn’s name displayed prominently on it. “I’m assuming this is not the job you got fired from earlier.”
“No.” She pushes out a nervous laugh. “It’s kind of hard to fire me from my own company.”
“I imagine so.”
We share another look as her lips curve up into a small smile. It’s not forced or fake, as is the case with so many other women I’m surrounded by. It’s natural…breathtaking.
She opens her mouth, as if wanting to say something. I step closer, anticipation filling me that she’s reconsidering my offer to walk her to her car, giving me a few more minutes with her.
Instead, she takes a step back, becoming overtly professional, spine stiff, shoulders straight.
“Thanks again, Weston.” She turns, about to walk out of the shop when I stop her.
“Londyn?”
Her eyes lock with mine. “Yes?”
“I hope tomorrow is better than today.”
She blinks, fully facing me. I erase the space between us, her aroma of lavender and baby powder filtering into my senses.
“Although, I must confess…” I lean closer, brushing back a few wayward curls. She inhales sharply, but doesn’t move away, making me think she’s just as drawn to me as I am to her. “In my book, it will be really difficult for tomorrow to be better than today,” I whisper.
“Why’s that?” she squeaks out.
“Because I met a beautiful woman.” I smirk, hoping I don’t come off as overly cocky or arrogant. “If you ask me, it’s going to be next to impossible to top that.”
She doesn’t move for several moments. Then, as seems to be the case with her, she flips a switch and whirls around. Without looking back at me, she hurries out the door and down the sidewalk, ducking into the garage.
Blowing out a breath as I berate myself for being too forward, I make my way back to the counter, everyone in the shop pretending to return to their business. I’m about to hand the barista the bill Londyn gave me, then stop myself, pulling out my wallet and using my own money to cover the tea. Heading back to my table, I grab the coffee and danish I’d picked up earlier for Omar.
I dash out of the shop, fighting against the wind and rain until I reach the corner where Omar sits huddled under an awning, keeping himself as dry as possible.
“Here you go, buddy.”
With a smile, I hand him the coffee and danish, almost able to hear my mother’s admonition that I’m only encouraging him to keep mooching off hardworking people by giving him food, coffee, and the occasional self-care items. It’s laughable, considering my mother wouldn’t know what a hard day’s work looked like if it smacked her in the face. For a woman who claims to devote all her free time to charity, she doesn’t have a charitable bone in her body, unless the media is covering it. But I’ve learned that the most fulfilling acts of charity are the ones you do out of the goodness of your heart. Not for accolades or commendation. Which is why I don’t mind helping Omar.
“And a little something extra in case you get hungry later.” I reach into my pocket, about to give him the bill Londyn left, but hand him a twenty instead.
“The world needs more people like you,” he responds in a gruff voice.
“Just doing the best I can.”
He nods as he sips the coffee, appreciation covering his expression. “I suppose that’s all we can do, isn’t it?”
At the sound of a car pulling out of the garage, I look up, my lips curving when I see a dark SUV, Londyn behind the wheel. My gaze follows it as she turns onto the street. When she comes to a red light, she glances over, her expression widening in surprise when she notices me talking to Omar.
He lifts his coffee, waving at Londyn as the light turns green and she follows the flow of traffic down the street.
“I suppose it is,” I murmur, watching until her car disappears from view.
Chapter Three
Weston
Hazy sunlight streams through the sheer curtains into my home office the following morning. I’ve been sitting at my desk for the past few hours, scrolling through Londyn’s website, mesmerized by her raw talent. Since our paths crossed yesterday, I’ve barely been able to think about anything else.
About anyone else.
As I told her I would, I texted her yesterday to make sure she got home okay. Then, as any normal thirty-six-year-old male who was supposed to be paying attention in a meeting would do, I completely zoned out and focused on my phone, waiting for her response. When it came, I couldn’t open my messages fast enough. It took all my resolve not to continue our conversation. I didn’t want to scare her by being too forward. So instead, I’ve resolved myself to cyber-stalking her website and Instagram, marveling at her flair for design.
I can draw up schematics for some of the most complex buildings in existence. Skyscrapers that extend hundreds of feet into the air. Stadiums that boast the latest in comfort and technology. Real estate developments that offer potential buyers everythin
g they can ask for in their forever home, while at the same time being eco-conscious and sustainable. But that’s all technical. There’s no art to it. No creativity.
What Londyn can do to a dilapidated dresser and turn it into a functional kitchen island… It is art.
The more I peruse her work, the more curious I grow about the woman I prevented from being the unfortunate victim of an asshole speeding in a pickup. How did she become interested in this kind of work? Who taught her how to do it? How does she see an entryway storage bench when she looks at an old, beat-up dresser?
As I continue scrolling through her Instagram, I can’t help but smile at a few of the selfies she posted — sawdust covering her hair and body, a drill in her hand as she stands by what will become another masterpiece. There are even a few personal shots of her in workout clothes, a pair of boxing gloves on her hands as she goes at a punching bag. The line of her arm is perfect, her muscles defined as she makes contact with the bag. It only increases my curiosity about her.
The buzzing of my phone pulls me from my thoughts, and I swipe off the alarm I set so I wouldn’t be late for today’s event of torture, otherwise known as a golf tournament. I take one last look at Londyn’s website, then push back from the desk, making my way down the hall and toward the kitchen.
When I round the corner, a child’s excited squeal fills the space, warming my heart.
“Morning, Uncle Wes!” Imogene exclaims, jumping down from the stool abutting the giant kitchen island, wrapping her tiny arms around my waist.
“Morning, lovebug.” I tousle her golden blonde curls, then turn my attention to my younger sister, Julia, as she pours some batter onto the skillet, the Saturday morning tradition of making pancakes underway.
You’d think after spending all week whipping up delicious treats to sell in one of the half dozen bakeries she owns, she’d want a break from cooking on her days off. But Julia doesn’t view it as a chore. It’s her passion, thanks to our meemaw’s influence.