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Amelia---Stalking much?

I pick at my nails, desperately in need of a manicure to hide my destruction. Ever since my birthday last week, I’ve been in a bit of a funk—anxiety is creeping in.

It’s a slow day in Parker’s coffee shop, The Morning Medusa. The only reason I’m here is because I am a creature of habit. I wish it was different, but my life is set in structure and tradition. Routines are an integral part of the persona I have to present.

So, every morning, I come.

Parker always has my drink ready, at my table in the corner. I don’t do anything as I drink other than people-watch or read. No one talks to me, which is great seeing as I prefer solitude. The lavender vanilla latte warms my cold, hardened heart. I don’t allow myself many vices, but Parker’s lattes are a given. The pages of my book are tattered, pen marks cover the paper with notes, hand-drawn hearts, and angry underlines. I’ve read it so many times I can quote it verbatim, but I don’t have the mental bandwidth to start anything new. The golden bell atop the front door rings and my gaze flits up at the newcomer.

He’s here. Again.

Every day for the last two weeks, the man has tried to catch my eye in what I’m sure is an attempt to spark conversation. Joke’s on him. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. Not anymore. Parker had texted me last night, warning me that this man—this dreamy specimen of masculinity—wasn’t giving up. She said that he wanted to know everything she knew about me. I laugh at the thought. Parker is my best friend, my ride-or-die, a steel vault. He was delusional if he thought she’d ever give me up.

It isn’t that he’s bad looking. No, if I wasn’t Amelia Conte, I’d jump into his bed in an instant. Sandy brown hair thrown into a man-bun with a smattering of stubble lining a strong jaw. The jeans he’s wearing today hug his ass, tapering down to a pair of worn Blundstones. His muscular forearms, bare skin begging for ink, are a weakness for me. And then coupled with the crinkling by his eyes when he grins? I’d be a goner.

His eyes are wicked fast, taking in movement while ensuring nothing slips his notice, and the way he carries himself is assured. He is confident to the point that he reminds me of a panther laying in wait. I imagine him to be a demanding lover, a man who would be able to read a woman’s body before she would register her own reactions. I’d bet those hands would be firm, guiding her body however he deemed fit. He’d probably let her lean into that divine energy, allowing her to simply exist in pleasure as he brought her to ecstasy over and over again.

I permit myself a few more seconds of gazing before turning back to my book. I can’t afford to get involved with anyone, even if my heart is shouting at me to let him in.