Page 2 of At First Smile

I love the way unique voices tingle along my nerves. Perhaps my dulled vision heightens the way I hear the world, but I revel in the musicality of voices, picking out the unique notes that make each one distinct.

“Those pesky banks holding our cash hostage.” My smile lifts, just a little bit more, with his soft chuckle. “It’s really no big deal.”

“Are you sure?”

“This will give me at least five karma points for the day.” Stepping up, I join him at the counter.

“Are you in need of karma points?”

“Well, I did send my mother to voicemail this morning.” Twice. But he doesn’t need to know that.

This trip I lasted three of the five days I’d planned to stay at my mother’s house, a new record, before I sought refuge. On day four, I retreated to Trina’s, feigning that she had more reliable Wi-Fi for me to work from than the farmhouse my mother lives in with Charlie, her latest husband.

He grins. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of you reaching Nirvana.”

“Thanks.” I brush my long hair behind my ear, facing the cashier. “Can I get a large apple cinnamon tea and bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich on a multigrain bagel.”

The cashier shakes their head, a big laugh bursting. “That’s two apple cinnamon teas and bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwiches on a multigrain bagel.”

Twisted toward the man, my eyebrow arches. “Tea?”

He wags a finger. “That judgy eyebrow may cost you some of your karma points.”

I gesture at him. “You just don’t seem the tea type.”

“What type do I seem?”

I frown and cock one hip. “Like ‘drinks gasoline while eating a burger made out of the grizzly bear he just killed with his bare hands’ type.”

“That’s preposterous,” he scoffs. “Everyone knows moose make better burgers.”

“I stand corrected.” I laugh, pulling out my wallet.

After paying for our food, we slide down the counter.

Drinks in hand, we stand waiting for our breakfast sandwiches.

Other customers file up to the counter, while we remain in silence.

Not uncomfortable or awkward silence, just companionable.

Sipping my sweet, spicy tea, my eyes flick between the staff preparing our food and the sexy lumberjack beside me.

I play the game we all play when meeting someone: using the little external clues to put together a picture of who he is. His clothes are comfortable and well-worn, but clean. One hand grips the to-go cup, while the other brushes the back of his head as if he’s nervous.

Do I make him nervous? No, that can’t be. Men like him make people nervous, not the other way around.

Gnawing on my lower lip, I try to think of the last man I made nervous. Besides Cael, Trina’s fiancé who was terrified that her oldest and closest friend wouldn’t give him the stamp of approval, the last man with a wisp of nerves around me may have been Alex. Ugh, Alex.

“Pen,” I blurt.

His head tips to the right. “Pencil?”

Laughter bubbles out of me. “My name is Pen. Well, it’s actually Penelope Meadows, but my friends call me Pen.”

He grins. “Rowan.”

Of course, his name is Rowan. That name radiates big D hot guy energy. Not a Herman or Stanley vibe about him.

“Nice to meet you, Pen.” His hand envelops mine, sending a jolt of something zipping along my nerves.

I try not to fixate on that little tingle but have to admit failure. When was the last time my body reacted to someone like this?

“So, are you coming or going?”

Seriously? Coming or going? Who am I? I school my features into a pleasant smile stamping out the blooming wince at my non-stellar verbal skills.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you coming into town or leaving?”

“Both.”

“Overachiever,” I tease, pivoting towards him, and my arm brushes against his. My senses hum with the quick caress of his muscular body against mine.

He clears his throat. “I drove down from Hamilton, Ontario to catch my flight.”

“So, where you heading to?”

“L.A.”

“Me too!” I say with far too much pep.

What is wrong with me? I’m like an overexcited puppy. I should be cool and indifferent, not exclaim with the fevered devotion of two ten-year-olds exchanging friendship bracelets on the first day of camp.

“Well, not L.A. I live in Seal Beach, but LAX is a direct flight getting me the hell out of here sooner.”

Why am I sputtering? Awkward, party of one.

“Not a fan of Buffalo?” He shifts, turning to face me.

“I have nothing against Buffalo as a city. People are nice. Love the wings. It’s just…”

Stop talking, Pen! Do not emotionally vomit on this poor man. All he wanted was breakfast, not to have you overshare.

“…just prefer being home.” I tighten my hold on Cane Austen’s handle.

“Buffalo’s not home?”

“Not anymore.” I shake my head.

Rowan’s hat brim shadows the upper half of his face, making it hard to read his expression.

Reading facial expressions isn’t my forte.

Even with the limited vision I do have, it’s often difficult to make out the tiny cues that can be found in someone’s face.

Aunt Bea always talked about the stories in the eyes.

Those are stories I’m unable to read. If I’m close enough and the light is just right, I can make out some of the little eyebrow ticks, lip quirks, or forehead wrinkles.

My stories come from the voice and energy. Everyone has a kind of energy they exude. It may make me sound like the lady with a different crystal for each day of the week, but it’s something I’ve learned to trust.

Right now, the energy coming off Rowan telegraphs annoyance, but I don’t think it’s directed at me. Despite my oversharing, his broad frame remains mere inches away. His obscured gaze fixed on me.

He nods. “I get it. I’ve only lived in L.A. for three years and it feels more like home than Hamilton where I grew up.”

“Canadian boy, eh?”

He snorts at the terrible joke laced in my even worse Canadian accent.

Smirking, I raise my tea to my lips. “So, how did a nice Canadian lad end up in L.A.?”

His hand rubs his neck. “Work.”

“What do you do for wo?—”

“Christ,” he groans, yanking out his cell from his back pocket. “Sorry, this is the fourth call in a row that I’ve ignored. I need to take this.”

“Sure.” I smile.

Holding the phone up, he grumbles, “This best be important.” Pivoting, he strides away from the counter.

“Ma’am.” The cashier holds up two bags with what I suspect are our breakfast sandwiches.

With a nodded “thank you,” I take them. In literally five seconds, I’ve lost Rowan.

Scanning the now bustling food court, he’s disappeared into the crowd.

Do I wait? Do I try to track him down? Do I just take his sandwich in hopes that I run into him again?

What if he comes back and thinks I stole his sandwich?

Although, I paid for it, so it’s not stealing.

“Excuse me, do you see that man I was with?” I ask the cashier.

“He went over there.” She points.

“Where? Can you verbally explain?” I hold up Cane Austen in a nonverbal reminder that pointing is not the best way to give direction to the visually impaired.

“Oh, sorry.” The blush can be heard in her voice. “Far right corner… My right, not yours.”

“Thanks.”

Turning, I set off listening for his voice.

Moving through the crowd, I make my way toward the far-right corner.

Voice recognition is the best way for me to find people in large gatherings.

Although, it’s not ideal with someone I just met, there’s something about Rowan’s voice that has imprinted on me, both distinct yet familiar.

Like nothing I’ve heard before but somehow something as well-known to me as my own.

“Damnit, I told you I don’t want to do that,” Rowan growls.

I halt. Not because I’ve found him, but due to the frustration underscoring his words. He’s pissed.

“This is fucking bullshit.”

Really pissed.

With his back to me, he carries on in an annoyed mutter with no idea I’m standing behind him, eavesdropping.

It’s not intentional, but I’m listening, nonetheless.

Granted, my relationship with Rowan is five minutes old, but this anger reads wrong on him.

Like an ill-fitting Halloween costume. Also, I’m not going to overthink my use of the word relationship.

Raking my teeth against my lower lip, I clutch the sandwich bag.

I should turn, run away, and give the sandwich back to the cashier.

Let them give it to the angry man. Not because I’m scared.

There’s no nip of fear telling me to stay away.

Rather, it’s more like witnessing someone do something they don’t want to do.

“You’re being a real motherfucker,” he snarls, causing a few onlookers to clear their throats.

Ouch. I don’t blame them. His tone is harsh.

Dropping his duffle by his feet, Rowan’s rigid stance slumps. His free hand grips the back of his neck. The movement communicates regret.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.” Scuffing his sneakers along the floor, he lets out a beleaguered sigh. “I know. You’re my motherfucker.”

Aw. It’s almost sweet the way it rolls off his tongue.

“We can discuss this when I get back. My flight gets in…” Pivoting, he comes face-to-face with me, mouth slack. “Pen.” It comes out almost pained.

Crap! “I wasn’t listening… Well, I was, but not intentionally. I—” I hoist up the Tim Hortons bag. “Breakfast!”

“Thanks,” he says, drawing out the word and taking the offered bag.

“Sorry.”

The muffled voice of whoever is on the other end of the call crackles between us.

“I should go.” Frowning, I turn and hurry away.

So fricking embarrassing. Rowan is clearly having a day and I’m all like “Here I am holding your breakfast sandwich hostage while eavesdropping on your conversation with someone you fondly refer to as motherfucker.”