Erasing Faith(9)

And, as fate would have it, he was.

“Twice in one week? That’s definitely crossing the line from stalker to serial killer, if you ask me,” I countered, smiling at him despite myself.

“Well, you’re the expert,” he murmured.

I couldn’t help but notice that he was even more jarringly gorgeous today, with his dark eyes locked on mine, that cap of close-cropped black hair, and two twin tendrils of ink snaking up the back collar of his shirt, hinting at tattooed skin beneath. I found myself wondering what his naked back looked like, and instantly banished the question to the far recesses of my mind, horrified I was even entertaining such thoughts.

But, looking at him, it was hard to stop myself. He was just so… raw. So male. There was no other way to explain it. From the top of his head to his littlest finger, his every part exuded sensual energy, as though he was putting out some kind of invisible pheromone-enthralling, ovary-ensnaring tractor-beam that lured in women against their better judgment. As I stared down at him, my mouth going dry at just the sight of his face, I knew I wasn’t entirely unaffected. In fact, I was pretty sure I was entirely screwed.

And yet — sitting there with his bicep muscles straining against the sleeves of his plain black t-shirt, leaning over the small table with a book clutched in his hands — he was also a total contradiction. Men who looked like him rarely sat alone in quaint coffee shops, reading Joseph Heller’s Catch 22.

From the looks of it, he’d been there a while. His coffee cup was half-empty and the leather jacket slung across the back of his chair wasn’t dripping water onto the floor, so he’d likely been inside when the skies opened up. We stared at one another for several seconds in silence, mirrored smiles on our lips, and I couldn’t help but think that this was fate, pulling us together again. That it was somehow my destiny to keep running into this beautiful stranger, against all odds, in a city of nearly two million people.

There was a name for it.

Kismet.

That moment when stars align and things that are just meant to be come to pass.

My mother always told me, fate was a force to be reckoned with. Some encounters were just destined to happen in this life, and you stood little chance of avoiding them. Certain people were simply meant to cross your path — to reach into your chest and leave an irreversible handprint on your heart, on your very soul.

Then again, my mother also believed that loose tea leaves at the bottom of her mug foretold the future and firmly insisted that she could see peoples’ auras, so I tended to take everything she said with a grain of salt.

“Are you going to fall into my arms again?” my stranger asked, smiling crookedly up at me. “Should I be prepared for a dead faint, or do you intend to remain conscious?”

“You make it sound intentional.” I rolled my eyes. “I tripped. You just happened to break my fall… with your face. Did the impact of my head against yours do permanent damage?” I asked sweetly, fighting off a grin.

“Well, if you’re going to be ungrateful, next time I’ll just let you collapse to the ground unassisted,” he said, his dark eyes warm on mine.

“How charming of you.” I snorted in a truly ladylike fashion. “Chivalry isn’t dead, after all.”

“Not dead, just passed out somewhere without a handsome stranger to revive it.”

I rolled my eyes a second time.

“Want to sit?” he offered, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him.

My eyes flickered from his face to the chair, undecided. I felt a blush stain my cheeks. “Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your reading.”

“You’re not,” he said softly, closing his book and nudging the free chair away from the table with his foot. A clear invitation.

My eyes moved back to meet his.

“You already know I’m a psycho, stalking serial killer,” he pointed out. “What else do you need to know before you’ll agree to have coffee with me?”

I laughed lightly and could almost feel those intense eyes watching my mouth as the sound escaped. It should’ve alarmed me, but instead I found it oddly comforting.

“True enough,” I agreed, some of my trepidation fleeing. “But, if I sit, there are some rules you have to agree to.”

His head tilted in an evaluative stare and he forcibly suppressed his smile into a serious expression that had me fighting off another laugh. “Terms are open to negotiation,” he said formally.

“Good.” I grinned. “First rule of stranger club…”

“Let me guess,” he interjected. “Never talk about stranger club?”

My laugh escaped. “No, Brad Pitt. The first rule of stranger club is no names.”

“I can deal with that.” He shrugged. “Second rule?”

“Questions are fair-trade. You ask one, you answer one.”

“Sounds good to me, Red.”

“Red?”

He eyed my hair pointedly and the skin around his eyes crinkled in amusement.

“I am not a redhead.” I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

His lips twisted in a repressed laugh. “Whatever you say.”

“My hair is clearly brown.”

“Uh huh,” he agreed, grinning.

“Ugh!” I groaned, craning my head back so my eyes were on the ceiling. “I don’t even know you and I can already tell you’re impossible to reason with.”