I direct my thoughts back to the here and now. My shop. Hopefully someday it will catch on and I won’t have to work anywhere else. I wipe off the counter for the third time today—not because it’s dirty, but because I need something to do. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I jump when the bell rings above the door and actual honest-to-God customers walk in. I try my best to tap down the urge to squeal in relief.
I manage barely.
I try to watch covertly as in walks a woman with a stunning body. She’s wearing a pink silk bohemian top with wide sleeves and a pair of white shorts that curve around her body perfectly. Her skin is tanned so golden I’m jealous and that jealousy doesn’t stop when I take in the high-heeled wedged sandals she’s wearing that have laces tied at the back of her calves. Her blond hair is in a long bob and it’s perfectly styled and shining. She takes off her designer sunglasses as she looks around the shop. She’s gorgeous. Completely gorgeous and everything I’ve always wanted to be, but never could be. She could be a movie star and maybe she is—I don’t really keep up with that kind of thing. Following her is a tall, beefy hunk of a man with jet black hair wearing a tailored pair of tan pants with a white shirt, which is long sleeved. It’s too damn hot for those type of clothes. This is Florida. But I have to admit the clothes look good on him—really good.
“Pet, don’t you think you’ve shopped enough?” the man says. He takes off his ridiculously expensive sunglasses—you can just tell from the frames. His voice drips with sex appeal, and despite the fact it’s not directed at me, my knees go weak.
“Do you even know me?” she laughs, turning into his arms, and the man’s face goes soft.
“Do you doubt it?”
“Not even a little,” she whispers and the look they share makes me blush. I look down at the counter, trying not to stare at them too openly.
What would it be like to have a love like that? To be so wrapped up in each other that the world around you ceases to exist? I’m so envious of them right now.
A little boy comes in that looks so much like the man holding the blonde that there’s no way to deny he’s the father. He’s holding the hand of another man and though I try not to stare, I can’t help it. The man is about the same height as the first guy, but he’s broader. He’s wearing slacks and a black shirt—seriously, do these guys not notice how hot it is outside? At least his shirt has short sleeves and it reveals these huge biceps that remind me of tree trunks. He’s also very unlike the other man in that he’s covered in tattoos. There’s not a place on him that doesn’t have ink covering it. His neck, his arms, what I can see of his chest from the deep V collar of his shirt, and even his hands and fingers are all covered in ink. It would almost be intimidating if it wasn’t quite so beautiful. He doesn’t look like he fits in with the couple, but clearly he does, because he’s holding their son’s hand.
“Allen! You’re the reason we’re here.”
“I’m serious. You keep insisting on wearing that silly beard,” she mumbles and the guy in question shakes his head at her.
“My beard is not silly.”
He’s not wrong. It’s a closely shaven beard, thin at first until it gets thicker on his chin. It’s not overly long, and he wears it really well. So good that you want to touch it. I look at them chattering with each other while the first guy takes his son into his arms and watches them. The girl and the man she called Allen look nothing alike. If he hadn’t called her his sister, I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.
“Allen, it is.”
“It’s not. You just have a thing against beards.”
“Well, it’s true. If Roman ever decided to grow a beard I would refuse to let him touch me.”
“Don’t challenge me, Pet,” the other guy interjects and that all-over body quiver I wanted to have before comes back now with a vengeance.
“Sorry, lover,” she whispers, blushing.
Those two have enough heat between them that I may need to turn the temperature down on the thermostat.
“Please, you two, family member here, not to mention your son is here,” Allen complains.
“How do you think our son got here?” the blonde asks, laughing. “Anyway, Allen, you were the one complaining that your beard is itchy—not me.”
“Boss, kill me now,” Allen says, his face deadpan.
“I’m out of this one,” the guy says easily as he walks over to the counter where I am. He sets the little boy down and I smile at him.