This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely those of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher.
A Greek Prince
©Copyright 2016, Leila Lacey
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Edited& Formatting By Leanore Elliott
On the coast of Southern California, in Giuseppe Village, people gathered from all over to relax and enjoy the clear skies, fresh air, and the picturesque atmosphere of the sea. At the corner of lovelorn and passion street near the water’s edge was a quaint New England style shop, called Parabola Coffee. The fresh aroma of home-style fudge soon began to lead crowds of hungry customers to the very popular coffee shop. As onlookers watched, kettles of freshly cooked fudge were poured into pans and folded into loaves for sale to the anxiously awaiting customers. Blending the rich aroma of freshly roasted and brewed gourmet coffee with the sweet smell of homemade fudge, it added the spicy aroma of fresh baked pastry to tease the senses.
India Winthrop parked her S-Class Cabriolet, in her usual spot and ran in to get her morning coffee. As usual, she was running late for her morning meeting with her consultants and partner. Wednesday was such a hard day for her, one of these days she would evaluate why.
The bells above the door of the coffeehouse jingled as she walked in.
Shoot, the line is so long today. She peeked around the people in front of her to count them and try to figure out if she had time to wait. She knew Jessie, the coffee shop owner wasn’t in the shop on Wednesdays, so there would be no save from her friend. Glancing at her watch, she was already a half hour late.
I guess I will have to do without today. She turned to leave and bumped into a rock solid wall force of man. Oh, and what a man he was, as her eyes slowly took him in from the tip of his toes then followed the contours of his long muscular frame with her eyes.
The length of his jean clad legs told her he was at least six foot four. Unlike most of the men in the world today, his jeans weren’t squeezing all the circulation out of his legs and hanging to belt notches below his ass-crack. India hated that look. Being single and dating, she ran into a lot of fashion challenged men. It was absolutely exhausting, dating these days. Either the men were dressed like they were he sophomore in high school all the time, under the guise of “keeping it real” wearing pants ten sizes too big for them. Or with a long t-shirt that could be worn as a dress on a woman like a jersey and having no dress shoes but every pair of Jordan’s ever placed on the market. Along with the corresponding baseball cap to match. He’s living in his mother’s basement because he is “helping his momma out” and hasn’t had a valid driver’s license since he was seventeen years old, so you have to pick him up.
Or maybe dressed like Count Chocula™ from the cereal box, tuxedo and ascot included. Even on a park date. He wore more makeup and lip gloss than she did and gave her tips on tweezing her brows over dinner, suggesting she check out his YouTube makeup channel. This particular man was so label conscious, he couldn’t pay his rent, car payment or insurance, but he had a closet full of Prada and Versace.
Last but not least, would be the blue collar man. This man had three pair of jeans and fifty different flannel shirts in his closet and all of them dirty. He says, he is a man, he’s not into that gay shit, and his clothes have “levels of dirty” and all the levels smell like paint, broken dreams and a complete loss of his sense of smell. He thinks restaurants are pretentious and thinks you should go to his favorite food truck for dinner. If he can find it, because it moves around after the lunch rush, but in a pinch, chipotle will do.
Yes, India had run into and dated them all. She’d already started to wonder if there was a man out there for her.
While she continued her slow inspection of the sexy specimen in front of her, she realized he was wearing a uniform shirt, khaki in color with black work boots. To her great surprise his shirt looked clean, neat, and fit well enough for her to see there wasn’t an ounce of fat on this man’s body. His scent carried the sensuality of a daring red dress. She inhaled deep. Like ruby-rich juices of pomegranate, raspberry and plum spiked with pink pepper, laced with Casablanca lily and spicy woods…Dark and enigmatic.
With her eyes finally landing on his face, India’s breath was taken away. HELLO. This well-built sexy man was a silver fox. Contrary to general belief, silver foxes were just as and possibly sexier than men with a youthful air and hairstyles, like cornrows. India hated the look of cornrows, it reminded her of a prison inmate. But this man managed to still attain that edgy dapper look, his hair cut into a salt and pepper faux hawk with the sides cut low but not so low, you could see his scalp. The top of his full head of thick healthy hair was tamed and styled to look soft and appealing. Finally, her gaze landed on his crystal blue eyes which were the kind you could look into and feel like you were getting lost. The kind you can relate to truly being windows to the soul, his long smoky eyelashes nearly touching his cheeks.
Giving her a smirk, he finally spoke in his panty melting baritone voice, “I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Snap out of it! “I—No, no—it was my fault I’m so sorry,” she kept stammering. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I didn’t spill your coffee did I?”
“No, all safe and sound.” His grin growing as he spoke, “Actually, this is your cup of coffee.”
Squish… India could literally hear the floodgates open on her previously Sahara Desert dry lady parts. His voice, Oh, wow. “I—uhhh—what?”
“A large mango black espresso with one pump of Carmel and low fat whip topping. Right?” he asked.
Officially freaked out, India took a step back from him as if violently pushed out of her lust filled haze. “I—Umm…Yeah that’s right but—how do you know what coffee I drink?” Was this man stalking her? And if he were, how on earth had she missed him?
Chuckling at the look on her face of total fear and confusion, he quickly explained how he knew what kind of coffee she drank, “I—it’s okay. I’m not some crazy stalker or anything. Jessie is a friend of mine. Well actually, I am a minority owner in the shop here, and I like to pay attention to our regulars.”
India looked down at her feet quickly to make sure the torrential down pour this man was causing her vagina was not now seeping down her legs.
“My name is Romolo Antonis,” he said extending his hand for her to shake.
“Oh—I’m India. India Winthrop,” she said placing her hand in his for a handshake, getting a surprise when he raised her hand to his lips, as he ever so gently kissed her knuckles. Jesus be a vibrator and a wet nap. She knew exactly who she would be picturing to get her rocks off tonight.
Smiling he whispered, “It’s nice to finally meet you India, you have a beautiful name. A lovely name for a sexy woman.”
India waited a moment then marveled at the fact, there wasn’t a hint of irony, or the need to say the words she most often heard from men right after telling her she was beautiful. “If you like, I can take you to my gym and help you get some of that excess weight off. You know that’s bad for your heart.” India had gotten so sick of hearing that line or ones close to it, she’d come up with the conditioned response of, “Well, I only have three months to live, so I figure, what the hell? I will go ahead and eat the whole chocolate cake. My heart won’t be beating soon anyway.”
Most men didn’t know what to say to that. They would stutter and stammer, until she finally gave them a reprieve and walked away.
Not wanting to hear anything like that come out of Romulo’s mouth, she decided to get away before they could get there. “I—well, I really have to get going, I’m running so late. Thank for the coffee.” She headed for the door.
“No problem,” he said smiling. “It was nice to meet you, India”
Again, he said those words without a hint or irony and without breaking eye contact. The sound of her name on his lips nearly made her climax as she tried to saunter casually away. Could this wonderfully sexy man really think she was beautiful as is?
Not wanting to tempt fate, India waved and rushed to her car. What the ever loving hell was that? She kept trying to make sense of the feelings she was having over her accidental run in with Romolo.
Her cell phone ringing made sure she didn’t spend too much time in thought. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. It has been a weird morning,” she said into the phone. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”