Dirty Stranger (The Dirty Suburbs Book 3)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Satisfaction twinkles in his eyes. If I’m honest, I think he likes what he sees.

  High five, Isla!

  “Welcome to Herbivore Café. What can I get you?” His tongue darts out and glides over his full lips in a leisurely sweep.

  My mind goes blank as I follow the path of his tongue. “Uh…I, uh…” I continue to fumble as my eyes tip up at the chalkboard in search of a prompt to help jog my memory.

  Tina gives me a knowing smile from the other side of the counter. “She’ll have a medium soy hazelnut latte.”

  I smile thankfully at her. “With two brown sugars on the side, please.” But, I’ve got to downsize because with the current state of my finances, every penny counts. “Actually, can you make that a small?”

  All the top debt repair gurus would agree that I should sacrifice my morning latte in order to fix my financial problems, but to me, caffeine isn’t a luxury. It’s a basic human right, one I won’t be deprived of.

  If getting my daily coffee fix is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

  “Small soy hazelnut latte with two brown sugars on the side,” the new barista calls over his shoulder to Tina. His eyes stay on me, intimately examining me all over again.

  And on second thought, ‘stunning’ is too mild an adjective to describe those eyes. They’re dazzling, magnetic, powerful. They’re keen with intelligence while maintaining a playful twinkle that forces my lips to curl into an undefeatable smile. And he’s intense. Definitely a creature who lives in his third chakra, his solar plexus.

  Tina shakes her head wearing an apologetic look as if she’s just remembered something important. “Oh, I’m sorry, hun. We just switched up our menu,” she says pointing up at the chalkboard. “We don’t serve hazelnut drinks anymore.”

  My spirits sink to my toes. “Really?” The disappointment is clear in my voice.

  “Sorry. Not enough demand for it. You’re practically the only person who orders it.” She shrugs helplessly.

  But her new coworker speaks up in that deep, smooth cadence of his. “No, Tina. We’ll make an exception for our friend—” He pauses and looks at me.

  It takes a beat to realize that he’s waiting for my name. “Isla,” I supply in a thick voice, eyes locked on his tempting mouth.

  “Isla.” His lips part and he breathes my name reverently, like it’s a sacred thing.

  Tina’s voice breaks my trance. “But it’s off the menu,” she protests. “I programmed it out of the cash register—”

  He speaks firm and steady without breaking my gaze. “Tina, we’ll make an exception for Isla,” he declares sternly.

  By now, my heart is flitting like crazy and I feel warm to my bones. The new guy’s bossy. For some reason, I like that.

  “Fine,” she says begrudgingly as she marches into the back room and returns a second later with a bottle of hazelnut syrup. He tosses me a wink before he and Tina turn to the back counter where the espresso machine sits next to a bunch of blenders and dispensers and other coffee-making contraptions. She stands by, arms folded tightly across her chest as she instructs her co-worker on how to prepare my beverage.

  As he works, I watch his muscular back ripple and undulate under the thin, white jersey of his T-shirt. He’s confident in a natural, easy way. His body speaks that language fluently. And though he’s wearing a coffee shop uniform, he makes it look important, dignified even, with those thick shoulders and sinewy forearms.

  I search through my purse for my wallet to pay for the drink and count out my money. The sexy barista turns back to me with a small paper cup of caffeine goodness in his hand. That’s when I notice his hands. They’re big and tanned, with neatly-trimmed nails and a light sprinkling of dark hair. An image of myself licking coffee foam off of each of those fingers in turn while looking into those honey eyes flashes through my mind. I shake my head to clear the inappropriate visual.

  I smile, trying not to look too affected by him. “Can I have a dash of cinnamon, please?”

  “Of course you can.” He licks his lips, leaning over the counter and sliding that wayward lock of red hair over my shoulder. His voice drops to a growl that only he and I can hear. “Now, the question is, can I get a dash of cinnamon?”

  Moan.

  A tickle skitters down my spine. I open and close my mouth but nothing comes out. He flashes a quick, subtle smile before he grabs the cinnamon shaker and adds a light dusting to my drink. Steam billows from the tiny hole in the plastic lid that he snaps onto the cup. "You’re…delightful, Isla,” he says almost to himself.

  I’m still frazzled as I take the coffee and stretch the money out to him. He reaches across the counter and taps my hand to stop me. “I can’t charge you for something that isn’t even on the menu, Isla.”

  God, my name just rolls off his tongue. Say it again…

  I narrow my eyes at him. “You can’t do that. I have to pay. You have to charge me,” I insist. My eyes shoot over to Tina but she gives me an impassive shrug.

  He follows the path of my stare. “Yes, I can do that,” he smirks. “Right, Tina?”

  She nods uninterestedly. “Yup, he can do that, I guess,” she says in a listless tone.

  What the hell is going on here today? The last time I was a dime short, Tina made me swear that I’d give her the money the next day. And now, here she is, practically letting the new guy steal right in front of her.

  “I’m not walking out of here with a free drink,” I say, sliding a handful of carefully counted change across the counter.

  “Well, I’m not taking your money,” he shoots back, folding his bulging arms across his wide chest, “and I’ll be here all day so you might as well get comfortable if you’re gonna stay.” He nods over at the grouping of shabby chic, overstuffed sofas facing the window.

  He’s annoying. Truly.

  So, why do I find myself smiling?

  “Take the damn coffee,” Delores says impatiently tapping her stick on the floor. “Just let somebody do something nice for you for once.” She eyes the barista. “This girl is Reyfield’s resident Ms. Altruistic. Always taking care of everybody but she won’t let anybody do anything nice for her.” Nancy nods along.

  Mr. Bossy evaluates me again, hitching an eyebrow this time. “Is that so?”

  “Yup,” Nancy says, “She volunteered to go grocery shopping for me when my arthritis was acting up a few weeks ago even though that dinky station wagon of hers can barely keep up with this cold weather.”

  “She came to my house with some weird, hippy essential oil concoction when I had pneumonia last winter,” Delores adds. “It worked wonders.”

  A grin threatens to spill onto Mr. Bossy’s face as he opens the bakery display case and grabs a pair of metal tongs. “Well, in that case, I’m going to have to throw in a giant coconut cookie.” He slides the crumbly sweetness into a small, white paper bag and hands it my way.

  “You really don’t have to do this.” I hesitate to take it from him.

  “A sweet treat for a sweet girl,” he says in an easy voice.

  I feel a blush coloring my cheeks and my heart is picking up speed. “If you gave treats to all the sweet girls in this town, you’d be out of business before sundown.”

  I’m subject to that honey-brown stare again. “I doubt that the others are sweet like you.” He licks his lips. “Lightning rarely strikes the same small town twice.”

  #Swoon

  This guy…He knows very well the type of effect he has on a woman and he’s not above using it to get what he wants. He exudes the confident magnetism usually possessed by charming politicians, hot-shot lawyers or powerful CEOs. And here he is, manning the espresso machine at a small-town coffee shop.

  That’s when realization hits me. He’s not just some barista. He must be a student working here as a part-time gig while he pursues his studies at the local community college. He’s probably studying Business Administration. Or Economics. Something brainy like that.

  While I stand ther
e silently writing the unofficial biography of the gorgeous and domineering man I literally just met, my phone begins to ring in the pocket of my jacket and reality slams back into me. Here I am flirting with some college boy at a coffee shop when my whole life is falling apart around me.

  Way to prioritize, Isla.

  I glance down at my phone and see my best friend, Sammie’s, number. Excitement flutters in my stomach. This call could change things for the better. She told me yesterday that she could potentially help me get an investment for my yoga studio.

  I scoop my money off of the counter. “I’ve got to take this,” I say, waving the phone in the air.

  Mr. Bossy nods as I take my coffee and cookie, pivoting toward the door. “Have a nice day, Isla.“

  I can’t help but smile as I drop my fistful of coins into Tina’s tip jar. I hear him call after me but I wave quickly at Nancy and Delores and hurry out the door.

  Chapter 2

  Isla

  A draft of cold air blasts into my face as I set foot firmly back in reality. I hit ‘answer’ on my phone as I hurry across the slippery little parking lot separating Herbivore's front door from Prasanna Light Oneness Studio's. I stop at the little carport where Betty, the Volkswagen Quantum my dad handed me the keys to on my 16th birthday, sits sheltered from the snowflakes slipping from the cloudy January sky.

  “Sammie!” I yelp into the phone as I move gingerly up the short walkway to the car door. I set my food onto the roof and slide the key into the door lock. Frigid air rushes in with me.

  “Hey hun,” she bellows as I start the engine and crank the heater to the max. I glance down at the tiny analog clock nestled between the dials on my dashboard. 8:52. Okay, I still have a few minutes to talk. I shift in the driver's seat and the duct tape on the cushion pinches my butt through my yoga pants. Betty means well but she’s seen better days. “How are you doing?”

  I’m tempted to unload on her, to tell her how utterly crappy my life is going, to beg her to swoop in from her cushy happy-and-successful life and save my from my state of near-destitution, but it’s pretty early in the morning to unload all that negativity onto the poor girl.

  “I’m good,” I say too quickly, too cheerily. “How are you?” As I’m setting my coffee down in the drink holder, I notice a number scribbled across the side of my paper cup in thick marker. Reuben. 555-4372.

  Reuben. The barista.

  I beg my heart to stop palpitating and focus my attention on my phone call. This conversation could be a real turning point for me.

  “I’m calling with good news,” she announces. Thank God! “Those investors I told you about. They’ll be in town in a few days. They’re willing to meet with you.”

  I slap my palm to my cheek in disbelief. “Are you serious, Sam?”

  “I’m serious, babe.”

  This is big news for me. The local bank has turned down my last three loan applications. I feel strongly that I’ll be able to bounce back financially if I can secure an investment to do some renovations (I have a leaky roof the landlord refuses to fix since I'm two months late on rent), hire extra help (aside from my sister Blakely who is my part-time receptionist, and our cousin Annaleigh who lends a hand when she isn't neck-deep in her science books, I have no other workers), and offer a wider range of services (right now, I'm limited to yoga, massage and the occasional cosmetic treatment). This might be my opportunity.

  “Look, I’ve gotta run. Keeland's waiting for me. We've got an ultrasound today. We're finding out the baby's sex."

  “Oh my god, that's so exciting, Sam,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. "Will you let me know?"

  "Of course! I'll call you as soon as I get back home."

  "Good. And email me the details for the investors so I can prepare myself?"

  "Sure thing. Keep an eye on your inbox."

  "I owe you one, Sam."

  "I know,” she teases. “I'm coming in for the goddess treatment next week. Massage, pedicure, facial. The works."

  I laugh in agreement and the line goes dead. I drop my phone onto the ripped cushion of the passenger’s side seat and rest my head against the steering wheel. I need this investment.

  Please, please, please. Let this be my break.

  I only allow myself a second of reprieve because it's 8:59. I'm officially late. I cut the engine and climb out of my car. I cringe at the weather-beaten facade of the building as I hurry up the walkway. It could use a little pick-me-up. The cracked front window needs to be replaced and the crumbling concrete stoop is a bit of a safety hazard.

  My mind slips to the conversation I'd had with Zayn when I was opening the place two and a half years ago. The bastard didn’t support me when I got the idea to open it—he didn’t even come down here and help me apply a damn coat of paint—and now he wants a cut of the pie. Anger spills into my blood as I pull the front door open but I won’t let it win. He may have won in court but I won’t let him win my peace.

  The familiar scents of jasmine and honeysuckle being diffused from the candle lamps strategically placed about the waiting area greet me as I step through the front door of Prasanna Light Oneness Studio. A few of my students sit cross-legged, chatting happily and drinking matcha tea on the large, colorful cushions strewn in the corner of the room. Blakely looks up at me from behind the reception desk and smiles in that sweet way of hers.

  Ah… my safe haven.

  Instantly, fifty pounds of stress roll off my shoulders and it reminds me that I can’t give up. I have something worth fighting for. This is worth fighting for.

  Chapter 3

  Isla

  “I say we go egg his house.” Faith speaks confidently before she tips back the last of her dirty martini. The movement causes her sleek blonde hair to tumble over her shoulders. A beam of purple light catches the enormous diamond on her ring finger, nearly blinding me in the process.

  It was her idea to drag me here for a little pick-me-up tonight. She even managed to have us seated in the swanky VIP gallery overlooking the dance floor below. Honestly, I wasn’t in the mood for a night out. The aftershocks of that soul-crushing meeting with my lawyer lingered with me all day. By the time work was over, it was either the Opal Lounge with my girls or a hot date with the box of assorted chocolates that's been sitting at the back of my freezer since at least Christmas 2013.

  The chocolate was covered in freezer burn, unfortunately. So, here I am, in my favorite dark wash jeans sipping on a glass of red wine while Faith dispenses her fun but reckless (and utterly illegal) advice.

  "You are an amateur!" Sammie hocks facetiously. "We should set his trash cans on fire!"

  "Hmm." Faith seems to consider it. "Do you think we could get away with that?"

  Grace rolls her eyes. "Please don't encourage my criminal-minded sister," she mutters under her breath, bumping her shoulder against Sammie's. "My Dodge Caravan would make a shitty getaway car, especially since I put on those winter tires."

  Sammie laughs. "I'm on board to do it, Faith. I'll blame it on the pregnancy hormones." Massaging the side of her swollen baby bump, she cringes. "Ouch, Hannah!"

  I stroke my best friend’s stomach. “Baby Hannah doesn’t seem to like the idea of vandalizing Zayn’s property,” I say with a muted laugh, “and neither do I.” I know that my friends are only joking. None of us would seriously consider destroying my ex-husband’s belongings. My girls are just trying to make me feel better about this messed-up situation.

  They’ve been my rock over the past year as the foundation of my marriage to my high school sweetheart cracked and gradually crumbled under my feet. For the longest while, I did my best to hide my domestic turmoil from everyone, including them. My friends have always viewed me as having life all figured out. But my world was falling apart and I didn’t know how to tell them the truth. I’ll never forget the night that the three of them showed up at my yoga studio to tell me that they had seen my drunk husband kissing another woman at the park in broad daylight. I came
clean in that moment. I confessed that Zayn had been cheating for a long time but that I wasn't strong enough to leave him. Having that conversation was cathartic. It empowered me. And these girls have had my back every step of the way, allowing me to finally stand up to Zayn and initiate the divorce.

  But now that my marriage is officially over, I find myself at a standstill, like I'm spinning my wheels in the thickest mud. My friends are getting their shit together. Sammie is carrying her new husband's baby. Faith just married the love of her life. Yes, Grace is separated from her husband but at least she has a gorgeous baby boy to go home to. And me? What do I have to offer? I have a crumbling business, a pathetic love life, even my hair won't cooperate with me.