When I step outside, a brisk wind whips my collar around my neck. Ominous purple-gray clouds blanket the sky. According to my weather app, it’s not supposed to rain for another thirty minutes. I’ll be fine. I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and start walking. My heels clack dully against the uneven sidewalk.
When I’m a block away from the office, a crack of thunder echoes through the darkening sky. “No.” I pick up my pace.
Two blocks later, the first raindrop splatters against my nose.
Thunder crashes above me as I yank open the door to the restaurant. The soles of my shoes squeak against the wood floor as I edge around the seven or so people waiting for a table. When the hostess catches sight of me, her eyes go wide. “Can I help you?”
Wiping the water from my forehead, I strive for nonplussed. “I’m meeting someone.”
“Cass?” Devin’s standing not ten feet away at a small, square table tucked behind a glass divider next to the hostess stand.
My lips part. He’s even more handsome than I remember, and how that’s possible I have no idea. He’s wearing fitted gray jeans and a black polo that clings to his broad chest. Reaching down, he picks something up from the chair next to him—a bouquet of white lilies.
Exactly like our imaginary first date. My lips part.
The back of my neck tingles and the scene blurs. I blink, and an image of Devin wearing a casual black sport coat over a white button-down with a crimson scarf wrapped loosely around his neck flashes across my vision. He’s holding lilies just like he is now, except they’re not wrapped in brown paper; rather, a whisper of crinkling plastic wrap echoes in my ears.
My breath catches and my knees wobble. The scene rights itself, and Real Devin is standing there, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever, lips tilted into a grin, eyebrows raised as his gaze travels over me.
Has this happened before? Or did I coma-dream this moment, or some variation of it, into existence? I lick my rain-splattered lips. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Devin’s here, and he’s waiting for me. My legs carry me toward him like I’m on one of those moving platforms in an airport. Suddenly, pain explodes across my face. I stumble backward, clasping my nose. “Owww!”
Did I…？ Yep. I just walked straight into the glass wall next to the hostess stand. What a smashing start to the evening.
“Are you okay?” Devin’s beside me now, his voice a warm caress as he gently grips my shoulder. He’s so close I can smell the ginger on his breath and the bergamot notes of his cologne.
Dropping my hands, I nod. “Yeah.” I can’t believe I walked into a wall. At least my nose isn’t bleeding, although it aches like a mofo. Heat scalds my cheeks and it’s all I can do not to bolt out the door and go jump into Lake Erie. He guides me around the flabbergasted hostess, careful to give the glass divider a wide berth, and steers me to his table. Once I’m settled into one of the metal chairs, he slides into the seat opposite me. The dimly lit restaurant is filled with a menagerie of mouthwatering scents. Behind Devin, the sleek, tiled bar is packed with well-dressed people conversing over cocktails.
I shift in my seat, suddenly conscious that I’m thoroughly damp. My silk blouse is sticking to my skin and I’d bet money my mascara has run under my eyes. Plucking at my collar, I push a few tendrils of wet hair off my forehead and spread my arms wide. “Well, this is a good start.” I laugh. I can’t help it. For all my worrying, prepping, and primping for my meet-up with Devin, I show up looking like a drowned poodle and nearly break my nose within the first thirty seconds of walking through the door. I definitely do not remember this ever happening.
Devin’s eyes twinkle and I’m relieved when he joins in my laughter. Now that I’ve started it’s hard to stop, and tears gather at the corner of my eyes. Unfolding my napkin, I wipe away the moisture—and any errant mascara—and force myself to take three deep breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess.”
He grins at me, tilting his head back. “Nah, you’re gorgeous.” Warmth spreads out from my chest with every beat of my heart. “Oh, you have a little…” He motions to a spot behind my ear.
Any lingering laughter dies on my tongue. “It’s my Rogue Curl, isn’t it?” With a self-conscious smile, I remove the bobby pins and band securing my bun and shake out my hair. Water is a reset button for curly hair, so I can let it air dry without worrying about a bun line. And when it’s down, I can tuck Rogue Curl behind my ear so it’s less noticeable.