Ask Me (Mess with Me 2)

Too long, I decide. Maybe this is crazy. When my brother dared

me to try picking up a woman like a normal guy, I thought it would just be a little bit of fun. But the more I think about it, the more the thought resonates. What if I wasn’t Andre Lavin, reigning emperor of fashion?

What if I was just… me.

My existential crisis in the middle of the sidewalk is interrupted when a mother pushing a huge stroller rolls over my foot. She offers an apology. Then she asks for my number. I accept the first and refuse the second before limping into the coffee shop. Hopefully, a shot of sugar straight to my veins will help. That’s essentially what the drinks that Americans call “coffee” are anyway, milk and sugar boiled together with a small bit of actual coffee thrown in for good measure.

With gritted teeth I order a latte. When in Rome, as they say.

By the time I have my coffee in hand, the pain in my foot has subsided enough and I decide to take a walk. My advertising agency is right across the street, but I definitely can’t go there looking like this. But I can walk around and enjoy the weather and the opportunity to do nothing. Before I left, I turned my cell phone off, something I never do, and I can only imagine how many emails and calls are being ignored right now. The thought gives me a little bit of forbidden satisfaction.

On the way out of the coffee shop, I sip the latte and try not to wince at the overly sweet taste. Suddenly something slams into my stomach and I have to juggle to keep my hot coffee from flying out of my hands.

“Ouch!”

A mass of brown hair slaps me in the face before it settles around a heart-shaped face dominated by a pair of big, amber eyes. Those eyes blink at me several times before it registers that she’s leaning unsteadily against me.

“In a hurry?”

At the sound of my voice, her eyes latch on to mine before she takes a slight step back. Her cheeks flush slightly before her eyes scroll leisurely up and down my body. Somehow her gaze is as provocative as a physical touch would have been. By the time she gets back to my face, my heart is tripping over itself and my mouth is dry as dust. What the hell?

“Yes, I am. I’m very busy and … have lots of important things I need to do this morning.”

Her insistence is even more adorable because she flushes bright red as she says it. She’s obviously not a very good liar. Which is refreshing.

“Is that right?” I raise my eyebrows playfully, enjoying the chance to tease her a little. Hey, she just stared at my dick. I don’t think a little teasing is out of bounds.

“Yes, really.” She huffs a little, tugging on the bottom of her skirt as if making sure it hasn’t ridden up. Petite but curvy, she looks like she’s about to rip through the buttons on her blouse if she breathes too deeply. I wonder if she’s outgrown her clothes or borrowed them from someone else. Either way, they don’t do her justice.

“Oh no,” she gasps, her eyes fixed on the front of my shirt. “Did I do that?”

I glance down to see the remains of my latte all over my T-shirt. Normally a brown stain like this would be the death knell for a piece of fabric but it hits me suddenly the other benefit of wearing these ugly clothes. If the cleaners can’t get the stain out, I’ll just throw it away and buy another T-shirt. The thought makes me smile.

Her brow crinkles in confusion before she rummages in the huge bag hanging off her arm and produces two napkins. “I am so sorry. But you don’t seem too upset about it.”

“I’m not. The coffee was shit anyway. I’m still not sure how Americans drink that stuff. Give me a good strong espresso any day instead of that sugar water.”

Her answering smile is so bright that I have the urge to shade my eyes. Looking at her is like staring into the sun. I want to but it’s just too much for my eyes to take in. The thought is perplexing. She’s beautiful, yes, but I see beautiful women all the time. Occupational hazard.

But those women aren’t talking with you for no reason.

The women in my world always want something, to be cast in one of my runway shows or to be on my arm at a movie premiere. This one doesn’t care about any of that. She’s smiling for no reason at all.

She turns to leave but there’s a trash can right behind her. I put a hand on her shoulder to keep her from bumping into it and she glares at me. I snatch my hand back.

“Just trying to keep you from running into something else.”

Her eyes narrow but then she glances behind her. “Oh. Thank you.”

She waves and then keeps walking. I turn to watch her go, suppressing a low growl when I see her curvy ass twitching in that tight little skirt.

“Madre di Dio.”

3

* * *

The fate of my future lies in the hands of the man sitting in front of me. I silently send up a little prayer to the patron saint of screwups.