Mr Garcia

I’m single. Not that it matters.

I wipe all the tables down and peer back out through the window.

I hate that he’s the first guy that has interested me since my divorce. I hate that we met at the club. I hate that we had the best sex ever and that he turned out to be an asshole. I hate that he’s stopped coming in for my bad coffee.

“Excuse me, miss,” someone says from behind me.

“Yes?”

“Do you have a bathroom?”

“It’s just outside and down to the left.” I point out the door. “I’ll show you where it is.”

“Thank you.”

I walk out the front door of the café, and I direct the person on where to go. Then, I look over the bustling crowd walking past.

I just wish I had told him I was only working four shifts to pay for my rent. I wish I had explained myself. I should have said more…

I sigh heavily and go back into the café.

Oh well. He’s gone.

It is what it is.

I sit on my bed and scroll through the places for rent, and I make my list of properties to look at this weekend. It feels great to have options. For the first time in a long time, I have money in the bank, and I forgot how good that feels.

My earnings from Escape Club hit my account today, which means that I now have five thousand pounds to my name. After my shift on Thursday night, I’ll have ten thousand and I can start looking for an apartment. I’ll have enough for the bond plus six weeks’ rent, and I can start to actually move on this.

But I am not sleeping with anyone else.

No way in fucking hell am I making myself have a shit week like this again.

I stare at my computer, and then I allow myself to do something I shouldn’t.

I type into Google: Sebastian Garcia. Architect, London.

The results come up.

Sebastian Garcia. London’s Rock Star of Architecture

What the heck? I speed-read through the information.

Age: 37.

Estimated worth: 15 million.

Marital status: divorced.

I frown as I read on, he’s divorced?

I click on Wikipedia.

Sebastian Garcia is an architect best known for his cutting-edge designs and high-profile clients. Rarely seen without a beautiful woman on his arm since his divorce two years ago.

I click on the images, and my eyes widen.

Fuck.

There’s image after image of him in a black-tie suit with a beautiful woman on his arm. There’s also some of him playing golf. That looks like a charity golf thing.

I go through more images of him on nights out, laughing, smoking a cigar. There are two good looking men with him in a lot of the images. Who are they?

I exhale heavily, as reality sinks in. So, he’s a player.

I slam my computer shut in disgust.

After washing my hands in the basin and looking at my reflection in the mirror, I fix my hair and straighten my apron. The thought of my shift tonight at the club has me anxious. I just have this morning at the café to get through, and then I have two lectures, and then…

Then, I’m halfway there to my financial goal.

“Focus,” I mouth to myself in the mirror. “Ten thousand pounds.”

I fix my hair one last time and make my way up the laneway next to my café. I turn the corner and glance up and over at the congested street. It’s super busy, like it is every day.

And I see him.

Sebastian is walking on the other side of the street, staring over at the café.

My heart jumps.

I watch as he pushes his hands into his pockets and stops for a moment. What’s he doing?

Then he turns around and begins to walk away.

I watch him walk away up the street, and I look around in a panic. What, he’s just leaving?

I run across the street. “Sebastian!” I call. He doesn’t hear me and keeps walking. “Sebastian!”

He turns, and his face falls when he sees me.

“What are you doing?” I throw my hands up in the air. “You’re just leaving without coming to see me?”

He presses his lips together, his eyes locked on mine. His hair is dark, his skin tanned against his crisp white shirt.

Damn, I’ve never seen a man wear a navy suit so well.

For some reason, I feel like I need to defend myself. I can’t stand the thought of him thinking I’m a dirty whore… even though he’s one.

I don’t even understand what I’m feeling, or why.

“I’m only doing four shifts there,” I shrug. “At the club, I mean.”

His jaw clenches.

“I need the money so I can move out of my university dorm. I’m here on a scholarship, and I can’t live there anymore. There are parties every night, and I’m going crazy. You don’t know how bad it is,” I say in a rush.

We’re staring at each other. I’m being open and vulnerable here, and he still has his hands in his pockets, standing there, completely cold and guarded.