If It Fits

Rule One: Always Make a Good First Impression

I don't believe in love at first sight. That's like believing in eternal life after death. It doesn't happen. Sure, I guess you could look at someone and think, damn, he's frigen cute, then maybe get his number and start talking and then fall in love. But you will never look at someone and know you love them. It just does. Not. Happen. 

When I first saw you, you were just some beach bum sitting in the sand, alone, with a bottle of beer in your hand. I wouldn't have glanced at you twice.

But my friend Trish wouldn't shut up about you. About how your fingers curled delicately around the bottle like they were cradling a baby or something, how you held your head high like you knew you belonged, how your sunglasses sat sideways on your nose like it was a trend you were trying to start.

I tried to ignore her and not look at you, but I couldn't help myself. There was something about you that sucked me in. I couldn't not study you. I attempted to convert my attention to the hotties, but I still found myself looking at you.

When we found our place on the beach, Trish sat where she could see you. Where she could watch you without effort. And you didn't seem to notice. Still, I was paranoid and I kept telling her to cut it out, that it would scare you and you'd call the police on us or something, even though I was occasionally sneaking glimpses too. She assured me that if you happened to notice, you'd just think she was checking you out and be flattered, if anything. She even considered getting up to talk to you a few times, but chickened out. I probably would have too, but I was nervous. I wasn't one to make moves.

I was just so captivated by you. Even if I wasn't looking at you, I saw you on the backs of my eyelids. Messy blond hair, fair skin, curved jaw.

We were just getting into the car when I realized I'd left my book on the sand. I went back to get it, without Trish. I told myself I would say something to you, even if it was only "Hi."

But you weren't there. And neither was the book.

I cussed inwardly for about two seconds, before I convinced myself not to care.

As I turned around to head back, we bumped into each other. My cheeks instantly flushed and it took everything I had not to squeal.

Wordlessly, you held your hand out to me, which was clutching the book.

You probably don't remember, but I thanked you, timidly taking it from your grasp, and all you did in response was dip your head. With a sideways smirk on your lips, you turned away from me, and walked back the way I'd come. You were mysterious and sexy, but there was something that seemed off to me. Maybe it was because you couldn't even offer a 'you're welcome', maybe it was because of how confident you seemed, or maybe it was because in our one-minute meeting, your eyes stayed on mine instead of staring at my boobs.

Even though I thought about it all the way back home, I couldn't put my finger on it.

Trish didn't know I'd run into you again, that it was you who picked my book up and returned it to me. I didn't want to tell her because I knew she'd go on about it forever, asking me what color your eyes were and how long your hair was. She was like that. She was a lonely cat lady, but without any cats.

When I sat down that night to continue reading my book, I found writing on the inside cover. A note. Your note.

Good taste. This is a great story, even though the ending is a little dry. I mean, Piper dies in the end, Tracy marries Drake, and their kid grows up to be a police officer and finds out that Tracy murdered Piper out of jealousy. What is that? I'd check out Ace of Hearts. That's an even better read, much the same as this one, but deeper. I do, however, hope you enjoy the rest of this one. -Dillion

I remember the anger that blossomed in my chest, the frustration that made me clench my teeth. You'd ruined the whole book. Fifteen dollars to buy a sob-story romance, and you'd flushed it out with twenty-five words.

I flipped through the rest of the book, looking for more notes, and found a phone number on the very last page.

I told myself not to call, that it wasn't that big of a deal and talking to you was just going to create a complicated relationship, but I couldn't stop myself. I had to yell at you.

When you answered the phone, I was surprised with the gruffness of your voice. I admit I jumped. I hadn't heard it, and it wasn't what I'd been expecting.

But I swallowed my unease and tightened my voice, growling, "You spoiled the story."

You laughed, deep and loud, but you weren't really into it. It was halfhearted, if that.

"I was looking forward to finishing it, Dillion, and now there's no point." There was hostility in my voice, and rightfully so. You had nerve as a stranger to write in my book, about the book. It was enough to ignite my fury.

I expected you to get defensive, or at least give a reason, but all you said was, "Who's Dillion?"

I remember my temper dissolved, my jaw dropped. "I got the wrong number!" A scoff of disbelief came up out of my throat, embarrassment coloring my cheeks. "I'm so sorry, sir--"

Your laugh cut me off, again not quite spirited enough for you actually to be amused. "You have the right number," you told me. "Just not the right name."

My nostrils flared. "Stop playing games," I grumbled into the mouthpiece. "I don't like being messed with. You said your name was Dillion on the note."

You made an odd noise, one that sounded an awful lot like a snort of amusement. "And you believed me?"

I shook my head, heaving a sigh. "Who are you?"

I could almost picture you smiling. "My name's Brad. And yours is?"

My mind twirled but I knew what to say. "Angelina."

You laughed, not like before, but serene and real. "I've been waiting for the girl that would say that to me."

My jaw set, and for a moment I was glad you couldn't see me. "I can't be the first one."

"Surprisingly you are," you chuckled. "so I give you a thumb's up for that one. But what's your real name?"

I ran my tongue over my teeth, silently debating whether I should tell you or not. I didn't know who you were, what you did, or anything about you at all, come to think of it.

Eventually I decided to lie, because that was the best way to make sure you couldn't creep on me. If you didn't know my real name, you couldn't do anything. "Payton."

"Payton what?" You asked, and you sounded innocent.

My eyes narrowed. The last name would have been fake too, but, "You didn't tell me yours."

You chortled. "Brad Tate," you told me, and it sounded genuine.

But I did too. "And I'm Payton Clade.'" We were probably both lying.

"Well, Payton Clade"--your tone held a smirk, which made my blood boil. It may not be my real name, but you were still laughing at it--"How's this; if you read my note, you know about my reference to Ace of Hearts. Luckily for you, I have the book. Meet me at Starbucks on the corner of Forth, and I'll give it to you." It was a statement, but I knew it held a question. You weren't one of those guys that just announced a girl was going to go out with you. A shocker, but you offered a choice.

And I may have been ridiculously stupid, or incredibly senseless to do so, but I agreed. "What time?"

Your voice was sweet as you replied, but dangerous at the same time, like poisonous honey dripping from a bear's sharp claw. "Eleven."

"At night?!"

"No," you inhaled deeply, like you were trying to restrain yourself from calling me stupid or something offensive like that. "No, in the morning. I'll treat you to coffee."

My throat closed up tight, fear and apprehension pooling together. Starbucks was public, but if you really wanted to, what could stop you from doing whatever you liked with me?

I swallowed the lump, about to tell you I'd be there. But you'd already hung up.