Coffee Casualty (FreeRead)

Grace dashed from under the final eve on the south side of the street, headed for the green canvas of the coffee house wedged on the opposing corner of Hollywood Boulevard, north. The rain was coming down in diagonal needles, pelting the newspaper she held over her head, and everything else she had strapped over her shoulder or slung across her forearm.

It's not supposed to rain like this in L.A. The heel of her boot sunk into the brown murk of a pothole at the curb. Jeans now two tones, blue and russet splashed, she skid to a halt under the awning. Looking down at her mottled attire, she stuffed the newspaper into the canvas bag at her shoulder and brushed the beaded surface of her silk chemise blouse. "A lot of good this jacket's doing me," she muttered as she pulled the light beige windbreaker from the bend of her arm and bunched it on top, compacting the soggy newspaper now in her bag.

Blinking the raindrops from her lashes, she felt the gritty sting of melting mascara as it trickled into her eyes. Can anything else go wrong? Her gaze scrolled down to the water spotted surface of her new leather boots. Tears would only add to the disaster. She scooped the canvas strap further over the crest of her shoulder and turned to face the oak and beveled glass door. Good. Someone was holding it open. She charged for cover and warmth, sending out a heart-felt thank you.

Do-see-do would have been the square dancer's directive had her entrance into Starholders been a southern soiree complete with fiddle music and checked shirts. But this was Hollywood. Stars and wanna-bes mixed in a blend of high-end dress-down fashion and overpriced Dulce de Leche Lattes. Her arm hooked his and they pivoted in a graceless half circle as they barreled into each other.

His coffee shot out the vent of the white plastic lid, as he held tight to the paper sleeve around its middle. "Bloody 'ell!" detonated from him with the same explosiveness.

Grace swerved, catching the strap of her shoulder bag before the contents could hit the floor. Swinging it into her arms, she held it like a sack of potatoes, mouth agape at the unexpected assault of the urban fantasy unfolding before her eyes. The man standing in front of her, regaining his balance and composure, was none other than Gerard Bowman, skyrocketing star of the just released blockbuster, Sword Fighter.

"Oh My God,' she breathed in staccato astonishment. The blue green of his eyes shone like illuminated gemstones as they latched onto hers; the corner of his mouth quirking in wry amusement. "I've not hurt you, have I miss? Miss, uh…"

"Holden. Grace Holden," she stammered, smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse in a self-conscious sweep.

"Let me help you." The warmth of his hand penetrated the thin silk fabric of her sleeve as he grasped her forearm and towed her to a vacant table for two in the corner. Squeezing in reassurance before directing her to sit, he smiled. The size of his hands allowed him to wrap long fingers completely around her arm, his thumb overlapping his own grasp. She looked down at the masculine chunky silver bracelet at his wrist as he let go of her. Descending onto the chair as though in slow motion, she was unable to wrench her eyes from him.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going." She ran an index finger along her lower lash line, hoping to mop up any raccoon circles that might be smudged from the dissolving mascara.

He chuckled. "Not likely, my dear. I think I outweigh you by four stone."

"What?" she squinted, leaning forward.

"Let me get that bag for you." He loosened the canvas straps from her hand and lowered the bulky contents to the floor next to her chair. Grace watched him like a falcon tracking an errant rodent. He was amazing, tall, broad, graceful and so Scottish. His black leather short-cropped jacket stretched across the musculature of his shoulders and tapered to his hips fitting snuggly at the waist. One side of the lapel placard flapped open, exposing the thick cord of his neck and collarbone. A short scruff of beard swirled from under his jaw across angular cheeks blending into sideburns trimmed just short of his ear. Michelangelo might have carved his long straight nose and fine cut lips in marble, but they were here in front of her, attached to the hottest actor in film today.

He unzipped his jacket, pulling a cloth handkerchief from the interior pocket. "Please accept this by way of apology." The resonant baritone of his voice was startling in richness and depth. "It was I who was rushing without proper attention." He snagged a stool from under the lip of the tabletop and straddled it, strong thighs lowering narrow hips to its round cushioned surface.

A waft of resinous pine combined with mint undertones reached her. Now that he was seated but inches away, cradling her cool clammy hands in his warm strength, she had the opportunity to evaluate the true beauty of the man. It was as though a vacuum was attached to her windpipe, sucking the oxygen from her lungs. Why couldn't she breathe? Jaysus, he was gorgeous!

"Buy you a cup of coffee?" he offered.

"That would be lovely." She heard her voice, but it sounded like it came from someone else. At least a semblance of sentience had returned. "Black. No milk or sugar, please."

He released her, stood and winked. "Be right back, luv."

She followed him with her eyes. He strode to the counter, returning with a cup of Joe in record time. Seems even the employees could deny him nothing.

"It's Gerry with a 'G', not a 'J'," he said over his shoulder as he walked toward her, two tall cups in hand. "Been meaning to cut back on the dairy and sugar myself." He pushed her cup across the table as he sat with his.

"Are you kidding me? You're having yours black as well?" Her brows arched in surprise.

"Don't look so shocked. I've even quit the fags a time or two." He looked at her and quickly added. "Cigarettes…smoking." Craning his neck in self-chastisement, he continued. "Sorry Miss Grace. Afraid I'm a bit of a plonker when it comes to idioms."

"Plonker?"

His ears flushed red. "An idiot…nicely put."

She shot an empathetic hand to his cheek, stroking the soft sprinkle of brown hair. He raised his hand to intercept hers.

"Cheers. But you don't have to--"

"Touch you?" She squeezed his thumb.

"No…I rather fancy that part." He smirked and pulled her hand to his lips, grazing her knuckles with soft warmth. "Thank you."

Grace snorted. "For what? Knocking your coffee on you? Rubbing dirty rainwater against that fine leather--"

"No. Bringing me out of my self centered fog." He lowered both their hands to the table, keeping a firm hold. "When I was leavin' here, there was nothin' on my mind but the blasted meeting I've got with the bleedin' president of Fox. It's still two hours before I'm to be in his office and all I could think about is what I'd be sayin'."

"That seems reasonable," she assured, reveling in the warmth of his touch.

"It's not prudent to allow career concerns to override your senses, blinding you to making the acquaintance of a beautiful woman."

Now it was her turn to feel the blood rising.

"I've caused you to blush…Perhaps that is an indication that you'll agree to join me for dinner?"

She brought her free hand to her cheek. "I'll need some dry clothes."

"Can I escort you home, my dear?"

She felt the fire in her face. "No, I can walk. It's just around the corner."

"Ah. I've a new apartment in the neighborhood, myself."

"So I've heard."

"Love to show it to you after tea."

"I'd like that."

"Meet my new puppy, as well?"

"Only if I can go on the evening walk."

He raised a quizzical brow. "How did you know she--"

"All puppies like their daddy to walk them before bedtime."

He sipped his coffee and looked into her eyes. "I suppose they do."