2. Bryanna

“What do you think about Lincoln?”

I hear the front door close. “What?” I ask, trying to act nonchalant. After taking off those killer heels, I prop my dying feet on the coffee table. Still a mystery as to why women would wear them willingly knowing what they could do to your feet.

But I am grateful for my sore feet that is distracting me from another type of pain that the mere mention of he who I swear I hate caused.

“Oh, come on.” Mo rolls her eyes and plops down beside me on the couch. “We’ve been to Stewart’s forever, Bry, and I’ve seen the way he looked at you.”

I can't help the sour chuckle that escapes. “What way, Mo?” Shaking my head I point at her nose. “You’re impossible, you know that, right?”

Morwenna bats my finger as she leans to me so we’re eyes to eyes. “No.” She does this half whisper half-shriek thing. “You are. I think he likes you.”

“And I KNOW he doesn’t like me. At all," I emphasize. "Lincoln is Adrian’s best friend, remember?”

“So what?” she asks again, none the wiser of the chaos inside my chest.

I sigh, attempting to contain my feelings. “Morwenna, whatever it is you think you see, you’re wrong. We didn’t really talk. He didn’t even see me. Don’t you think it would gross him out to date his best friend’s little sister?”

It's ... true.

The son to a legendary Bradley “Badass” Stewart, Lincoln inherited all his good look and then some. He’s like this mystical creature you often read. He exists, his presence so powerful you can’t help but to be intrigued, but the constant brooding expression on his face make you want to steer clear from him.

He exuded pure masculinity with this mysterious vibe his unapproachable status, calm and collected, no nonsense act created. His ability to slip in and out of the room unknowingly making him more appealing to those who love chasing mystery. Me? I told you I prefer romance.

Only a few were brave enough to try to penetrate the Lincoln fort and lives to tell the tale, while we mere mortals were just admiring him from afar and be those who will only know of him.

That is Lincoln Stewart to you, ladies and gentlemen.

To me ....

Fuck, no!

“You don’t know that." Mo's voice brings me back to the here and now. I shift my eyes to look at her. "And I’m just trying to help.” She shrugs, feigning innocence.

She may be playing matchmaker now, but once she knows the truth .... Deep breath. Exhale. “Look, Mo," I convince, "we talked about this million times, right? I’m ready when I’m ready. It’s just the matter of time, anyway. It’s not like I want to be single my whole life.”

“I know,” she agrees and slumps against me, her head on my shoulder. “I just want you to have what I have with Tom, Bry.”

I must admit that I am jealous of Mo’s relationship with her long time boyfriend, Tom. At twenty eight, she already met her Mr. Right, mapping their future together. It’s just a matter of time before he pop the question and whisk her away too.

That’s why it’s hard for her to accept my choice about my own love life. She saw my reluctance at meeting someone and trying to start something new as the wrong step to find my man. She said that relationship is the same as playing sport; practice makes perfect.

Unfortunately, I don't want to practice anymore. At least not with someone who didn't spark my heart from the first time, who couldn't wake the butterflies in my belly immediately. I’d rather be with my book boyfriends than have to endure such disaster of taking time to fall for someone just to be left behind.

"I really wish that time will come soon," she sighed. "And I really like Lincoln."

I, too, sigh. If only she knew.

If only she knew.

****

The next morning, like every morning before work, I grab my daily dose of caramel macchiato at Hola!, the little cafe in front of my office building. MI am greeted by Mac, who smiles at me from behind the counter. “Your usual, Miss Jackson?”

“You know it.” I smile back at him and give him an playful wink. The pimpled-face teenager blushes as he scrambles with my order. After paying for my coffee and my favorite triple chocolate cupcake, I see two kids getting up from a corner table in the back and make my way over to grab it before anyone else can.

Busying myself with scrolling the photos from last night, I select a few best pics I deem i***a-worthy and upload it. My phone seconds later pings, notifying that my mom just liked my post. As predicted it begins to ring, mom’s smiley face fill up the screen. I swipe to answer.

“I'm happy you had a good time last night.”

“Thank you, Ma,” I reply. "They got me my pancakes, of course I was happy."

My mom laughs. “You and your pancakes. By the way, you remember we will have your birthday dinner at home this weekend, right? I’ll make you your proper birthday cake. Sure it’ll be chocolate. And ....” Mom drones. I can recite every words since we always did the same thing for my birthday. Or Adrian’s.

She’ll have a table full of food enough to feed an army and our favorite cake even though the table will only be surrounded by us, Uncle Rob and Aunt Beth, Mo’s parents, and Mo herself. In Adrian’s case, there will be Lincoln. My only cousin, Michael, will make an appearance if he’s in the state, when he’s not busy galivanting around the world doing his doctor without borders duty.

She’s still rambling as I half-listening half-people watching through the window when a cup and a paper bag materializes in front of my line of sight. I follow the fingers that hold it, up, up, up until I clash with blues that render me speechless. Again.

The wide-eyed woman looks up at him in awe and for a split of second, she’s lost all capacity of speech, much like I seem to have.

The wide-eyed woman?

Yep. She is me.

Eyes wide and mouth agape like a fish run out of water.

Not a good visual, I’m sure.

Not a good impression in front of this really good guy either.

I think I scarred him for life.

“Sweetie, you hear me?”

My mom’s voice break the spell I’m in. Lazy grin appears on his handsome face, face I’m sure those TV people love. “Yeah, Mom. Sure. I ... uhm,” I stutter. “I ....” Eyes still lock with his, I couldn’t look away, I blink. Once. Twice. “Mom, I have to go. Love you.” Not sure I touch the right part of the screen to end the call, I continue my staring. And blinking. And gaping.

His clear blue eyes sparkles with mirth, amusement edged their shine. “At first I was so sure these were yours, but now ... I don’t know.” He slightly shrugs. The lazy grin turns into a full watt smile, blinding me even more. “Uhm, Byanna?”

The way he said my name sending chills down my spine, kick-starting my heart and makes it overdrive. In a very good way. And it’s a good thing, too, because now my brain is getting enough supply of oxygen, so it can function somewhat normally again. “Yes?”

Wait! Why do I make it sound like a question? And what am I answering to?

“Your order.” He puts them on the table then sits on the chair across from me. “I hope you don’t mind.” His smile doesn’t fade.

Glad I amuse him.

I clear my throat, try to pull myself together after he kind of messed me up for a while there. “Yeah, sure. I don’t mind.” I gesture to the table, “and thanks for picking my order. I guess they called when I was on the phone.”

“It’s fine. I was picking up mine anyway. Was standing behind you, actually. Saw and recognized you when you were hunting down the table.”

“Hm, okaay,” I drags out. I don’t know what to think about that.

He chuckles. “I’m sorry. I just realized how creepy that sound. And to think you probably don’t remember me ....”

Oh, I definitely remember you.

“I was performing at Stewart’s last night ....”

I know. I was there, looking at you, listening to your voice.

“I hope you like the song ....”

I bet you didn’t know I prefer your version now, did you? How could you sing that song better than the original singer?

My phone pings. Stopping him and ending my internal monologue. An incoming email from my assistant, Remi, reminding me I have a meeting in an hour. “I’m sorry. Work’s calling. I have to go.” I stand and scramble to pick the things that brought him to me. “Thanks again.”

He stands too. “Sure. And the name’s Nathan, by the way.”

Then there is that devilish smile again.

Good God.

“Bye, Nate.”

I leave him at the corner of the coffee shop so positive that that smile will be hanging around in my mind all day.

Or, longer than that.

****