It’s Complicated (Her Billionaires #5)(28)
Author: Julia Kent

There was an ease to this that threatened to overwhelm her—the exact opposite of what it ought to have done. When you meet someone and you find yourself transported into a place of calm serenity, aren’t you supposed to feel calm and serene? Wasn’t that how this worked? Why would his neutral, casual nature make her so anxious? The sky seemed a little too blue, the sun a little too sharp, and the cars driving past all seemed to be making pings and knocks and vrooms, creating a tapestry of sound that further overwhelmed her senses.

From all appearances, Alex shared none of the melodrama she was experiencing in every cell of her body. Damn him. His face was open, tipped slightly up, as if soaking in the rays. A beautiful May day like this in the Boston area was not unheard of, but it was certainly rare. She was happy to be outside with a light breeze blowing through her hair, strolling with someone who represented a new beginning. Allowing herself that one concession of hope allowed her shoulders to lower, her body willed to relax by her mind.

They walked pleasantly without any tension between them, despite the tension within her, for about half a block, when he turned to her and smiled down, asking, “Do you know this area?”

“Only from picking up shifts here. I know we’re headed toward the strip, the center of town, where we’ll find restaurants and coffee shops.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I was thinking about going to the little one.”

“Anyplace but Jeddy’s,” she said, and he laughed.

“You’ve been there?” he asked.

“Who hasn’t been there?” she responded quickly.

He shrugged. “That’s true. Heck, even my grandpa’s been there.”

“Really? That doesn’t surprise me. I think that place has been around since before your grandfather’s father.”

“Well, I don’t think he went there, ’cause he was in Armenia. Lived there his whole life.”

“Oh, so you’re one of the many Watertown Armenians.”

“My name should have given it away,” he answered.

“Anything that ends with -ian, right?” She laughed. “I come from Ohio, so this is all something that I had to learn when I moved here. Mendham isn’t exactly unusual.”

“No, I’d imagine it’s not. English?”

She nodded. “I guess so, I don’t know. Nobody from my family came from anywhere as far as I’m concerned. We don’t exactly have in-depth genealogists running around in my branch of the family tree.”

He paused and frowned—a look of curiosity, not of upset. “What do you mean?”

“I’m the first one…to get away,” she said. “I was about to say I was the first one to go to college, but that’s not true, my father had a master’s degree. But even he never left central Ohio. My whole family is from there, and is still there. My mom’s back home, and I go back every year, but mostly to visit my niece. Well, she’s not really my niece—we’re cousins—but she’s so much younger that I…” Why was she talking about this? She could feel her mouth moving, the words coming out. She was functional and cognitively grounded, in that the sentences had proper syntax, the words made sense, and yet they poured out of her mouth like something in a cartoon bubble, that went on, and on, and on. From sheer nervousness, her brain just kept forming words, and her mouth kept spitting them out. Cutting herself off, though, seemed impossible, until finally, she just abruptly stopped.

“Oh, look,” she said, pointing, “there’s the coffee shop.” It was lame, but it got her to stop spewing nonsensical shit out of her mouth.

“What’s your favorite drink?” he asked. “Wait”—he interrupted her before she could even answer—“let me guess.”

She stopped, planted her hands on her hips. “Go ahead, give it a try.”

“You’re a…latte kind of person.”

She cocked her head, looked down, thinking about that for a moment. He was right. Should she tell him he was right, or should she make him sweat it out?

“C’mon, I’m right, aren’t I?”

She looked up, flinched a little, surprised by the confidence in his voice. He really thought he knew her, and damn if he wasn’t right. “You’re right. Lattes. Boring. Occasionally, I’ll have a triple if I need the extra caffeine, but…”

“Espresso doesn’t have as much caffeine as you’d think,” they said in unison.

This time she flinched, but in a completely different way. “You know that?” she asked.

“You know that?” he countered.

They both laughed.

“How about me? Guess my drink,” he said, waving at his chest, as they slowly made their way into the threshold of the coffee shop.

“I know you like coffee with milk from our…interaction,” she said slowly, “the other night.”

“Interaction?” He smiled. “Is that the word you use for it? I have plenty of better words.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

The barista looked at them expectantly. Josie could feel eyes on her, sense them and then see them out of the corner of her eye. It was as if everyone else in the room were from a different planet. As all his attention was on her, completely focused, waiting for something that she knew she was capable of giving, but hadn’t known that until this moment.

“Macchiato,” she snapped.

He pulled his head back, a bit perplexed. “What?”

“Macchiato. You’re a macchiato guy. Not that Starbucks crap, either.”

The barista flashed a giant grin at her. This was an independent coffee house, built into what had probably once been a barber’s shop. The long, narrow space was shabby chic, with painted chalkboard walls and a handwritten menu colorfully chalked up daily. The biggest investment in this space was in the espresso machine, which looked like something out of the Steampunk Exhibition at the Charles River Museum of Industry.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “How’d you know?”

“You’re that kind of guy,” she said, leaning back against the counter, needing the support to say what she was about to say. “You can sense, and taste, and feel the subtleties of life. You don’t need to cover up anything with a bunch of milk and a ton of sweetener to make something bitter go down. You savor what you seek, and you know something special when you find it.” The end of her sentence came out husky and dark, like a gasp. The pit of her stomach tightened as she acknowledged the reality of her words; speaking the truth about herself wasn’t something she did well. Actually, it wasn’t something she did at all. This felt like sitting in a confessional, with Alex the priest on the other side of the screen. Except, thank you, Jesus, Alex was no priest. The deeper truth of who she was burbled to the surface, as if he conjured it or pulled it out of her with a magnetic force that only he possessed.