Cuts Like An Angel by Mason Sabre, Lucian Bane Page B

watching you and taking notes, Rosie.
    She sat herself down, happy for the view and that she could see him coming. It was the view she dreaded him having of her, but didn’t mind having of him.
    Not more than ten minutes of he’s not coming , she spotted a guy walking toward the café. Her heart galloped as she struggled to see the face above the black collar on his very, nicely fitted shirt. The kind you tucked in, only it didn’t have tails, it just ended, right at his black belt. God almighty, let that be him. He stopped at the door and her eyes lowered to the nice curve of his ass in the fitted jeans . Not skin licking tight but accentuating. Mercy me.
    He finally looked up and her breath caught. Oh shit. Holy hell it was him. How was that him? Hair cut? Yes, hair-cut. It was cropped short and messy looking, like she’d played in it with wet fingers. She wanted to play in it. Her mouth went dry and Godzilla yawned in her stomach from the sudden increase of acid. She watched as he took hold of the door handle, her eyes picking up a piece of a tattoo just below the hair-line on his neck. How’d she miss that delicious detail? What was it, where did it go? End? Were there more? He glanced at the window landing those breath taking blue eyes right on her harlotry hazed stare. Busted . So busted there was no hiding it. She decided to go with it and waved at him. Then he smiled. Mother of England, he smiled and lit up the sky while Godzilla had babies in her gut. It was all fair warning that her body would act against her and ruin her chances with this gorgeous, beautiful man.  
    The brief seconds between him entering the café and finding her table were filled with Rosie performing panic attack procedures. Breathe in through the nose, exhale through the mouth. He’s only a human.  Somebody’s son. Somebody’s brother. Somebody’s husband or boyfriend...
    She lifted her coffee to appear busy only to have it dribble down her chin just as he rounded the corner. She set the coffee down too hard making it bang on the table as she wiped her mouth and rose. Was she supposed to stand? Before she could wonder what she wasn’t supposed to do, she stretched her hand out to him—a reminder of their purpose there—business. Only, she’d not considered what touching him would do, while his cologne did a nose dive into her every pore.
    “Heaven,” she whispered shaking his hand. “H-hello, hi.” She continued shaking and shaking, staring at his smile, and shaking some more. She jerked her hand back and wiped it on her leg, realizing she was being a blessed freak .
    “Sorry, did I have something on my hand?” he inspected his palm as he sat.
    “Oh,” she gushed. “No, it’s a nervous habit.”
    “I have many of those,” he said, looking around then back at her. She was staring again.
    He lowered his head with a shy grin. “You’re skenning like I’ve a third head.”
    “Skenning.” She panicked at the term wanting to grab her list of slangs from her purse, sure she didn’t have that one.
    “Staring?” he helped.
    “Oh,” she laughed oh so loud before blurting, “I am, you’re …” she swirled her fingers at her face “… just so different.” 
    “Good?”
    “Very,” she gushed before cringing and going for transparency. “Do you model?” Oh God, wrong transparency.  “Can you tell I don’t get out?” she went on, another shovel of dirt on her casket. “In the real world, with real people?”
    “You’re fine,” he muttered, his turn to stare at her. “You’ve got beautiful eyes.”
    Lord Jesus God Almighty.  Smile Rosie. Smile and say thank you. “Thank you,” she said trying to keep her smile wattage from reaching blinding. “So are yours. And your …” She nodded, realizing she was about to say his face, which was stupid. “You’ve got nice, uh. Everything. See? It’s the not getting out, and the no filter.” She arranged her spoon on her napkin to keep her hands from