Still, she kept her distance, even when he'd noticed her in the dojo and smiled at her a time or two. She didn't smile back. She didn't encourage any kind of a relationship, nor did she want one. Not because she didn't ever talk to people, but because he made her feel something she'd never felt before. But she liked looking at him. Maybe a little too much.
She didn't have flights of erotic fantasy or dreams. Her body had never awakened, on fire, burning with need and hunger. Her breasts hadn't felt swollen and achy, desperate for a man's touch. Not until she laid eyes on Malcom's new instructor. Something moved in her. Something took over and unexpectedly, at night, when she wasn't having nightmares, she had erotic dreams that burned through her body until she couldn't breathe. Abruptly they'd leave her, and once they were gone, her body would settle and she'd be perfectly fine again. He was definitely someone she needed to stay away from, but looking at him was acceptable.
He'd sauntered into the coffeehouse two weeks after starting with Malcom. She'd noticed him immediately. How could she not? When he moved, the roped muscles of his body, even beneath his tight black shirt, did a delicious kind of rippling that drew every feminine eye in the place. Ridley Cromer. The name was as strange and unique as the man.
Catarina stood outside the coffeehouse just staring into the windows, feeling happy. She always made certain she acknowledged being happy. That was important. She woke up in the morning and always, always told herself she would be happy that day.
"Hey, beautiful."
She froze, the smile fading. The other thing strange about Ridley Cromer was the fact that she never heard him when he came near her. He didn't make a sound. She heard everyone. She always knew when someone was close to her. The reason why she excelled in martial arts was because she always anticipated her opponent's move. It was as if she had a kind of radar telling her where everyone was at all times within her space. Everyone but Ridley Cromer.
She turned her head, holding her breath, her smile fading. Her eyes met Ridley's and the impact was so strong the air rushed from her lungs as if she'd been punched. He had beautiful eyes. Intense. The way he looked at her was intense. Everything about him was intense. And zen. Very zen.
She forced herself to nod out of politeness. She knew if she tried to speak she would squeak like a mouse and nothing else would emerge. Ridley Cromer was fine to look at. Daydream about. Even have night fantasies over, but there was no talking. No interaction. Not ever. If all the rest of the world of women were smart, they'd adopt her steadfast rules with him.
"You working tonight or just looking for company?"
His voice was low and sexy. Her pulse beat hard in her throat. She swallowed hard. She'd never had a crush on anyone in her life, but he was standing right in front of her. Towering over her. His eyes smiled and his white teeth flashed. He should be locked up to preserve all women's virtues.
She shook her head and reached for the door handle. He reached at the same time, his hand settling around hers as she grasped the knob. A shiver of absolute awareness slid down her spine. Curled in her belly. There was a sudden tingle in her breasts, and she felt heat gathering in her very core. Not like her night fantasies, where her body burned up, but still...
He didn't let go of her hand, and she couldn't remove hers from the doorknob. His touch was light. Gentle. She should have pulled her hand way but she was frozen to the spot. He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body seeping into hers. He was hot. He radiated heat. His breath was warm on the nape of her neck, and for the first time she wished she'd left her hair down to protect herself.
"It's Cat, right? Malcom calls you Cat. You're his favorite student. I've never known him to have a favorite. I'm Ridley Cromer."
She closed her eyes briefly. Thunder roared in her ears. Her brain short-circuited. His voice was pitched so low that it seemed to slide beneath her skin and find its way directly into her bloodstream like some strange new drug. No one touched her. No one dared. He had broken that taboo. She didn't know how to feel about it.
"You're quick. Very fast," he went on, as if she wasn't the rudest person in the world for not answering him. "I couldn't help but watch you sparring the other day. You were wiping up the floor with men ranked much higher than you. Men with a lot more experience. It was a thing of beauty."
A thing of beauty. She would hold that close to her and think about it when she was alone. A compliment. Coming from someone who clearly could best anyone in the dojo, probably including Malcom, it was very high praise. Still, she couldn't stand there being an absolute idiot.
She finally found her wits and gave the doorknob a desperate twist, flashing what she hoped was a careless smile of thanks over her shoulder at him. She yanked open the door, but found when she stepped back she stepped right into him. Right into him.
His body was as hard as a rock. It was rather like smashing herself against an oak tree. His arms came around her automatically to steady her. The heat radiating from him nearly burned right through her clothes.
To her absolute horror, she banged the door closed again as she threw herself forward and away from him. She nearly ran into the heavy glass, but his hands were suddenly at her waist, gently moving her away from the door.
One moment she was heading for danger, the next he had literally lifted her and put her a foot away from the door.
"Kitten, you'd better let me get that."
Color rushed up her neck into her face. To her everlasting mortification, she could hear male amusement in his voice. She was an idiot - a tongue-tied idiot - and he'd think she was crazy. Still - she gulped air - that was for the best. He'd just dismiss her, hopefully never look at her again. Not with those eyes. Those beautiful, antique gold eyes. Who had eyes that color?
He pulled the door open and held it, waiting for her to go through. Thankfully she found her legs and moved past him, once again throwing a small, hopefully thankful smile at him over her shoulder. She walked stiffly to the counter and shoved her things beneath it on the other side.
She was absolutely certain someone needed her to file away books in the back where no one could see her. Someone else could make the coffee tonight and she'd just go hide.
"Cat, great, you're here." David Belmont, the owner of Poetry Slam, threw her an apron. "Get to it, hon. Everyone's been complaining because apparently my coffee doesn't taste like yours. I've watched you a million times and I do exactly the same thing, but it never comes out like yours."
"You don't like making coffee, David," Catarina replied and put on her apron. Which she found hilarious because he owned the coffeehouse.
The moment she was behind the coffee machine, David moved into position to take orders and money. Clearly there he was in his element, chatting up the customers, remembering their names, talking them into some of the bakery goods sold with the coffee. He even remembered the poetry or short stories they wrote. He was awesome with the customers, and she was awesome with the coffee. They made a great team.
She didn't look up when anyone ordered. It was part of her strategy to keep in the background. The mouse in the coffeehouse. Unfortunately, because she was great at making any type of coffee drink, the customers were aware of her. She was the reigning barista, and the customers had begun to fill the coffeehouse nightly.
She had worked hard to learn what she needed to in secret. She read, watched countless videos and committed coffee books to memory. Before that, she'd had to learn to read. She was a little smug about it. Rafe would never, ever think to find her in a bookstore/coffeehouse. Never. She was poor little illiterate Catarina.
She kept her eyes on the espresso machine when she heard Ridley give his order in a soft, low tone that set a million butterflies winging in her stomach. She already knew exactly what he wanted, just as she did with most of the regulars. He hadn't been coming in all that long, but she was aware of every breath he took - just as the other women were. She certainly remembered what he liked for coffee.
She
knew exactly where he sat without looking up. He always pulled out a book, usually on meditation or essays from a zen master, while he drank his coffee. He savored coffee. She'd watched him, sneaking looks, of course, and he always had the same expression on his face. She knew she put it there. She might not be a conversationalist, but she made spectacular coffee.
She forced herself to make fifteen more coffees before she looked up. Her gaze collided with his. All that beautiful, perfect, molten gold. She almost fell right into his eyes. She blushed. She knew she did. There was no stopping the color rising into her cheeks. He gave her a faint, sexy smile. She looked down without smiling back, concentrating on her work.
One look and her stomach did a crazy roll. What was wrong with her? She didn't have physical reactions to men. It was just not okay. She couldn't ever be stupid enough to wish for a relationship. She'd get someone killed that way. In any case, she'd be too afraid. She didn't even know what a relationship was.
But he was darned good to look at, she acknowledged with a secret smile. Darned good. The familiar rhythm of the coffeehouse settled her nerves. The aroma of coffee and fresh-baked goods swept her up into the easy atmosphere. Once the poetry slam started, darkness descended. There was usually little joy in the poems, but she enjoyed them all the same.