Lucky Scars Read online

  Lucky Scars

  Kerry Heavens

  Lucky Scars

  Copyright © 2018

  by Kerry Heavens

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editor: Kelly Cockerham

  Cover Design: Rebel Graphics

  Cover Image: Depositstock

  Formatting: Rebel Graphics

  For my lucky scars

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  I should get the fruit and an espresso, I told myself. Or something skinny at least. God knows I needed the caffeine, and since I’d dressed like an adult for once, I figured I should at least try and act like one. I looked at the muffins and sighed when I saw the girl behind the counter making up Frappuccinos for a couple of teenagers. That’s what I really wanted. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

  I didn’t think I could stomach my usual order right then, anyway. I was way too stressed. I didn’t know what I was going to say to this offer. How could I? I didn’t know what kind of offer it was going to be. Hell, I didn’t even know if there was going to be a damn offer! I just knew, if there was, it was going to be something I’d be crazy to turn down. So, a jittery stomach full of whipped cream and cake wasn’t going to help me at all.

  Besides, dressed in biker boots and ripped skinny jeans, aka “my normal clothes,” all the city boys and girls ignored me, so I could get away with ordering my caramel Frappuccino and my double-chocolate cheesecake muffin. They didn’t notice me because I didn’t count, not in their world. I’m not one of them. Dressed like this, though, I almost looked like I could be, and I’m sure, in this getup, I would have turned some well-groomed heads asking for extra caramel sauce on my whipped cream.

  They don’t eat, those women, not any place I see them, anyway. I always wonder how they exist and if it’s worth it? I see them every morning in their crazy high heels and power suits, ordering their skinny whatever with extra this, double that, hold the foam. They stand there with their air of importance waiting for their coffee and checking their emails. The truth is, they’re probably secretly playing one of my apps, but they’d never admit it.

  “What can I get you?” the barista asked suddenly, forcing me to come to a conclusion.

  “I’ll have, umm…” I glanced once more, longingly, at the kids taking their Frappuccinos. Come on Bea, I urged myself. You’re a grown up today.

  “I’ll have a flat white, please. Oh, and this.” I reluctantly held up my fruit pot.

  “Anything else?”

  “Make that two flat whites and two fruit pots; we’ll pay together,” a self-assured voice from just behind my right shoulder said.

  I frowned and turned, not offended, just confused as to why I couldn’t place the voice that knew me well enough to barge in on my order.

  The second I turned, he overwhelmed my senses.

  Don’t you find that some men are a sensory overload?

  They smell too good, they look too good, their skin is too good. It all comes at you hot and heavy like a sex fog, and you’re thrown off your usually indifferent game.

  I shook my head a little to clear it.

  Nice try, Mr, I thought. You nearly had me.

  Nope, didn’t know him. I’d seen him in line before, but I didn’t know him.

  I just needed to tell him to direct his hot and heavy at someone else and pay for my own damn boring coffee. Arrogant bastard.

  But it took me too long because, before I could get my words together, he had leant across me with a suave smile, pointed his watch at the card reader, and the deal was done.

  I’d got sex-fogged and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Now look, buddy, I told him in my head. I’m not interested, so you can take your coffee and shove it up your entitled, Armani-clad, perfect arse. Okay?

  I prepared myself to deliver those exact words when he turned to me, his smile much more contrite, and said, “I’m so sorry. You must think I’m a real arsehole.” He looked uncomfortable, regretful, making me feel guilty for thinking exactly what he assumed I was thinking. “It’s just that we were ordering the same exact thing, and well…I wanted a chance to introduce myself.”

  He politely offered me his hand, which I took because that’s just what you do, even if you’re completely closed down inside. “Jonathan,” he grinned, “and I’m not an arsehole, honestly.”

  The grin was disarming, or maybe it was because he’d cranked up the sex-fog again; I couldn’t tell. Either way, I smiled back involuntarily and introduced myself. “Bea.”

  “B? What does that stand for?” his perfect forehead wrinkled.

  “It’s short for Beatrix,” I told him, cursing my politeness.

  “Oh Bea!” he said, elongating the syllable. “I get it. Sorry, I’m not too sharp until I get my coffee.” Another disarming grin shot my way. “It’s nice to meet you, Bea. I haven’t seen you in here before; do you work around here?”

  I nodded reluctantly. “Yep, just around the corner. I’m in here every day.” Not that you would recognise me, since usually I’m invisible to the likes of you.

  “Hmm. Just goes to prove that I need my coffee before my brain starts functioning properly. I’ve massively dropped the ball if you’ve been in here before and I haven’t noticed you. Please accept my utmost under-caffeinated apologies.”

  I struggled not to roll my eyes as I moved forward and took my place at the other end of the counter to wait for my coffee. “Apologies are really not necessary, honestly,” I assured him dismissively. “I blend in. That’s how I like it.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said, catching up with me and casually placing his hand against the small of my back, guiding me to a less crowded waiting spot. The sensation was so surprising to me, I almost fell over. I had to take a step away so that I could think straight.

  “Blending in implies average,” he smiled disarmingly. “And I assure you, you are far from average.”

  Oh Lord, I thought, recovering my wits. It was all bullshit, of course; I was in here every day in my normal clothes, and he had never so much as looked my way. But damn, he was going all out, and I didn’t really know how to handle it. I just about managed to refrain from calling him out on it because, as my assistant Mel, would say, I’d look like the frosty bitch I am.

  I’d told her time and time again that the frosty bitch works for me because I do not have time to date, but she’s under the impression that one can simply make time. As if! I started a gaming company four years ago—alone—which was never my intention, and we produced three of the top ten free gaming apps of last year. Worldwide. I have zero personal life, and that’s exactly the way I want it. The frosty bitch defences are necessary, trust me.

  Plus, really, who wanted a thirty-five-year-old career gamer girl whose high score is always going to come first?

  I looked up at
him because I realised he had been silent for as long as I’d been self-justifying.

  He kept smiling, all confidence.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  I had nothing. I just stared at him, all tall, dark and handsome to the point of cliché. I didn’t welcome the feeling he had awoken. It was a sensation I barely recalled, it had been so long, but it was there. I scowled and fortified my defences against his charm. I did not have time for feelings of any kind, and even if I did, I just…couldn’t.

  “And it’s just a guess” he continued, clueless to my struggle. “But you’re acting like you don’t hear it enough.” His soft smile slayed me.

  Oh. Shit.

  Shots fired!

  Frosty bitch defences have taken hits on all sides. Retreat, retreat!

  “Thanks, I, uh…” I spluttered.

  “Two flat whites?” the barista called out, effectively saving my life.

  Jonathan took the coffees from the counter before I could react and fully faced me with a look of intent. “Your flat white, beautiful Bea,” he declared, handing it to me.

  He let me put my hand around it, but there was resistance when I tried to take it.

  “It’s a sign you know. Two flat whites. It means something.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” I laughed, doing my best not to sound as off guard as I felt. He let go of the coffee, and I clasped it to my chest, lingering in his space a second longer than I wanted to. Damn it. “Well, thanks.” I lifted the cup in salute and smiled.

  “Any time,” he fired off that dangerous smile again. I could see it must serve him well. “Call me if you need to hear it again. I must get going, I have a meeting.”

  I was about to point out that I didn’t know how to reach him, and I was ok with that, when I felt the business card he had cleverly positioned between my hand and the cup. He nodded in self-congratulatory amusement and turned to walk out the door.

  I managed a shocked laugh and shook my head despite myself as I watched him go. What in the ever-loving hell just happened? I glanced around once the door closed, certain I must have looked like a poor, unsuspecting, sex-fogged noob to the professional human beings surrounding me. I cleared my throat and turned, heading for the napkins and sugar as gracefully as I could in shoes I’d bought especially for the meeting of doom, knowing that saving face was pretty much out of reach by that point.

  I could feel prying eyes watching me. A guy like Jonathan must attract a lot of admirers, and I had the feeling that they all thought I’d jumped some sort of invisible queue. I glanced up, noticing at least one pair of eyes darting conspicuously away to nowhere in particular.

  Don’t worry ladies, I’m not interested. Nor would he be if he knew me. Normal service shall resume tomorrow. My hands were unsteady as I fiddled with the coffee lid. Stupid grown up coffee in it’s stupid grown up cup. Sure that was the problem…it had nothing to do with being hit on by some kind of walking pheromone.

  I collected myself and walked as steadily as I could to the door, muttering Mel’s words to myself. “‘Get some grown up clothes,’ she said. ‘Make an impression,’ she said.” Fucking Melanie, what did she know? I’d made an impression alright, and it was the wrong fucking one! Head down, grumbling to myself, I marched down the busy street towards the corner. I didn’t notice the poor unsuspecting guy until I slammed right into him, sending him sprawling onto his arse with my flat white all over him.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh my fucking God! I am so sorry.” I clapped my hand over my mouth because I didn’t know what else to say. The guy looked down his front and winced, peeling the burning cotton off his skin. “Here, let me help you,” I offered my hand.

  He looked like he’d just got hit by a bulldozer. He had. The Beadozer.

  He took my outstretched hand and let me help him up. He really was wearing my coffee. We both were, but I deserved it. “Shit. Did it scald you?”

  “No, I’m ok.” He pulled his messenger bag back to his side from where it broke his fall and wiped rivers of coffee from the flap.

  I put my hand out without thinking and brushed at his…you know what? I don’t quite know what I brushed, but I realised far too late that I shouldn’t be touching it and whipped my hand back. “Sorry.” I was mortified. This was why I didn’t people if I could help it.

  He laughed. “Is this just some ploy you have to feel people up?”

  “What? No!” I gasped, genuinely shocked at the notion. “I…” I faltered and then realised he was joking. It had to be that I was still under the influence of the whole sex-fog encounter, because I could not seem to put three syllables together.

  His laughter was too enthusiastic for someone wearing my coffee. It was almost flirtatious…not that I was good at spotting it usually, but after what just happened in Starbucks, I felt a little more switched on to those kinds of shenanigans than usual. What was it with men? Put on a bit of mascara and they all notice. Message received lads: I normally looked like shit. Noted.

  Focusing back on what was important, the victim of my stupid attempt to look like a functioning member of society, I surveyed the damage. He was fucked if he was on his way to work. “Were you going somewhere important?”

  He glanced at his watch, then looked me up and down. “No, it’s fine. What about you?”

  I looked down at my own state. I was fucked too. My siren-red shift dress, which apparently “hugged my curves in all the right ways,” according to Melanie, was now plastered to my skin, and the coffee had formed a delightful trail between my thighs. “I’m fine. I can change when I get back to the office,” I muttered, wiping in vain at the V-shaped stain over, well…my V. Ugh!

  “Oh? Do you have a habit of throwing coffee around?” he asked semi-innocently, pushing his glasses up his nose. The action drew my attention to his eyes, and my breath hitched. I never noticed things about strange men’s features normally, but this guy’s eyes were different colours. One was the iciest blue-grey with a deep blue outline. It was so pale it immediately stood apart from the other one, which was a deeper greenish-hazel with flecks of gold. They were amazing, and I was amazed by almost nothing any more.

  “Huh?” I asked, confused and distracted. I shook my head, trying to clear the sex fog.

  “You keep a change of clothes at work. You must make a habit of this,” he chuckled.

  “No, I—” I paused, realising he was joking again. My defences softened, and I studied him standing there in all the hipster glory I’d ruined. His coat had been hanging open, so luckily it was saved. I’d done some damage to the checked shirt he was wearing beneath, but that too was open…over a white T-shirt. Or rather, a formerly white T-shirt. He was casually smart and I guessed, not off to some big meeting. My mind went to Jonathan in his designer suit and I was briefly grateful it wasn’t his couture I’d ruined. This guy seemed altogether more casual about…everything. I shook my head. Why was I comparing them? I must have still had some sex-fog in my brain.

  The man let out a huff as a gust of icy January wind whipped up around us, and our wet clothes suddenly plummeted in temperature. I felt terrible for him even as I pulled my tiny, pointless jacket around myself and my teeth begin to chatter.

  “Listen, I’m just in the next street,” I told him. “If you don’t mind Pearl Jam, I think I have a clean T-shirt that will fit you.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t have to. I—”

  “I insist.” I held up my hand. “I can’t stand the thought of you being freezing cold all morning because of me. Come on.” I didn’t give him any time to argue; I stooped to pick up a notebook he had dropped on the ground, tossed my near-empty coffee cup in the bin and headed back towards my office.

  He followed a step behind at first, awkwardly. “Look, you really don’t have to do this. I should be going.” He reached for the notebook in my hand.

  I glanced back at him and held it slightly out of his reach. “If you hav
e somewhere to be, you can’t go like that,” I told him. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll have you back on your way, I promise.” I realised he was only following me because I had his notebook. It hadn’t been my intention to hold it hostage, but if that was what it took to ease my conscience, then so be it. “Besides,” I nodded to the building, slowing my strides. “We’re here now.” I offered him a tight smile as I held the door open. He paused, looking up at the face of the old Victorian workhouse, which was now home to several creative offices, including my own.

  “Is this where you live or where you work?” he frowned.

  “Both,” I told him, nodding towards the warm interior, hoping to prompt him in out of the cold. “Get inside, it’s freezing.”

  He passed me with a quirked brow, and I hustled in after him, shuddering from the cold. That was absolutely the last time I took fashion advice from Melanie.

  “You’re a workaholic, I take it?” He followed me to the lift; his tone sounding disapproving.

  I guess I am, although not at all like he thinks, but I’d have to admit that today I looked like one, in the more conventional sense. “Yeah, guilty,” I conceded, not to bore him with the truth. After all, if the uncomfortable shoe fits, wear it.

  The lift came quickly, and he gestured to me to go in first, stepping in behind me. I pushed the button for the third floor. It wasn’t that I couldn’t take the stairs; it was that the damn shoes I was wearing needed a licence, and I was still a novice. I had already taken him out once. Best not do it again. I realised he was watching me intently, and I felt a flush creep up my chest. What on earth? When I braved a look in his direction, I saw that he wasn’t staring at me so much as the notebook I was still clutching.