I set my coffee down. My hand is not entirely steady anymore.
What the hell was that?
I’ve been around beautiful men my entire life. Models. Actors. The kind of men who get paid to look the way they look. And not a single one of them has ever made the air change by walking past a window.
But it wasn’t just the way he looked. It was the way everyone reacted. Respect or fear or something between the two, I can’t tell which.
Who the hell is that man?
Violet slides back into the booth. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says.
“Not a ghost.” I grab her arm. “V, I just saw this guy walk past the window, and I swear the entire street cleared a path for him. Like, people literally moved out of his way. He was—” I pause, trying to find a word that covers it. “Insane. He was insane.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Insane hot or insane scary?”
“Both. Simultaneously. I didn’t know that was possible.”
She grins. “Welcome to Arizona, babe. They grow them different out here. Cowboys have a reputation for doing everything better, Lola.”
My mouth drops open. The only man I have chasing me around is the guy who owns our apartment building. Reese. He and I went for one drink after we signed the lease agreement, and I’ve been batting off his attempts ever since.
“He had tattoos. Everywhere. And a cowboy hat. And a truck the size of this building.”
“So basically your exact type if you were brave enough to admit it,” she says.
“I don’t have a type,” I tell her, biting my lip.
“You absolutely have a type, and it’s the opposite of every man your mother has ever introduced you to. Which is why you’re blushing right now.” She says with a mile wide grin on her face.
I press my hands against my cheeks. They’re on fire. “I’m not blushing. It’s the coffee. It’s hot in here. This place is like walking in fire every day as it is,” I joke, trying to deflect.
“You’re drinking an iced latte.”
“Shut up.”
She cackles. “So better than our landlord then?”
I run my hand over my face. “I’m not going on a date with our damn landlord, V.”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “No. Because Lola wants a cowboy now.”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I need to get laid tonight, Lola. It’s been three months, and what if I’ve forgotten how to give a blowjob?”
I burst into laughter, making the couple next to us turn to look at us. “A blowjob is the same as riding a bike. You don’t forget,” I tell her.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t wanna ride a bike. I want to ride a cowboy.”
“Well, then get your game face on for tonight, V.”
And I’m about to interrogate her on whether she knows who this man is when a voice interrupts. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re Lola Jackson!”
A girl is standing beside our booth. Probably mid-twenties. Her New Yorker accent catches my attention and tells me she’s a tourist. Her eyes are wide, and her phone is already in her hand.
“Hi,” I say, slipping into the smile I’ve practiced to perfection. The one I’ve worn so many times, it fits like a second skin.
“I bought the dress you posted last week! The green one? With the slit? I wore it to my friend’s wedding, and literally everyone asked me where I got it.” She’s talking so fast she’s barely breathing. “Can I get a selfie? Please? My friends are never going to believe this.”