Less than an hour later, I walk into The Coffee Pot, look around and realize I have no idea who I’m looking for.
The Coffee Pot is a Portland institution, a throwback diner with small, brown mugs and squat amber water glasses. But the hipsters have gotten to it, so the coffee is excellent and the menu is updated, with a few odd items like liver and onions for an attempt at authenticity. It’s crowded at the moment, full of college students, office workers, and tourists, and I scan the room looking for a woman by herself who looks like a lawyer.
Problem is, there are about a dozen. Is she brunette? Blonde? Redhead? About now I’m really wishing she’d put her picture on the firm’s website. Other than her voice, I have no way of identifying her.
Worse, she has no way of identifying me, either—that’s the whole point. And the only pictures she’s seen of me are of my dick. How’s this for a creep move? Go up to one of the professional women sipping coffee and ask, “Excuse me, are you the one who has seen my dick?”
I should have thought this through better.
My phone buzzes with a text. I’ll be at The Coffee Pot in five minutes.
She’s not here yet.
I grab a seat and text her, I’m sitting in the last booth on the left-hand side.
Grateful for the relatively private table, I order coffee and a waitress slops it down and gives me a flirty smile. I push up my glasses, run my hands through my hair, making it stand on end, and look over to see a woman standing at the edge of the booth with an inquisitive look on her face.
“Are you Josh?” There’s that voice.
“Yes,” I say in relief and stand. Then I get a good look at her.
She’s fucking beautiful.
Clear, pale gray eyes, with dark lashes that look natural, not fake. I tear my attention away from her piercing gaze, half-hidden by bangs, to see she has smooth, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and a body to die for—all tits and ass and hourglass curves.
This is my potential attorney?
She’s wearing a black blazer over a white Oxford button-down shirt that strains at her chest, and it’s all I can do not to stare. I mean, men look at boobs, and we lose focus. I want to see those buttons go flying. The outline of a white, lacy bra peeks through the thin material. Her blouse is tucked into her black pencil skirt, and she’s wearing black heels that are a little scuffed.
The outfit doesn’t look particularly fashionable, but her beauty more than makes up for it.
She holds out her hand. “I’m Evelyn.”
Slim fingers grip mine. Her skin is soft, and I can smell her perfume, a light, sweet scent that makes me want to hold her hand longer.
It takes a moment to come to my senses, to remember that she’s seen my blog, my dick, and all the ways I like to jerk off.
This could be embarrassing. I need to keep this meeting as professional as possible.
Clearing my throat, I let go of her hand. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Evelyn. Please, have a seat.”
After we sit across from each other in the booth, she sets down a yellow legal pad, and rummages in her purse for a pen.
Then she smiles, and it’s breathtaking. Her lips are full and pink, not from lipstick, just the natural tint of her skin, and when she swipes her tongue across her lower lip, I almost groan.
Fuck, this might be harder than I thought.
No, moron, if it gets any harder, this is definitely gonna get awkward.
Taking a deep breath, I motion to her. “Let’s get you coffee first.” I flag down the waitress, who is no longer smiling broadly at me. After she takes Evelyn’s order and walks away, I scan the area. No one is paying attention to us. The people seated nearby seem wrapped up in a little cocoon of food and legal stimulants, and there’s enough ambient noise to drown out our voices. I relax into my seat and lift my eyes across the table. “Okay, here’s the deal. My name is Joshua Cartwright.”
Evelyn stills as her eyes widen.
I nod. “So you get it.”
My family has been part of Portland for a hundred and eighty years. There is a Cartwright Square and a Cartwright Shopping Center. Cartwright Avenue extends up and down the entire city.
My mother even has a fucking prize-winning rose named after her in the famous Portland Rose Garden.
Cartwright Mansion overlooks the city on the northwest side, making sure no one forgets who built this metropolis.
And lest my family be accused of being underachievers, my brother is running for the United States Senate.
Which makes this in-person meeting an extremely bad idea.
She could ruin me.
Her head dips as she whispers, “Those are really pictures of you on that blog?”
“I take them with my phone or with a tripod, and then use Photoshop to, uh, create the effects.”
She smiles, her stunning gray eyes alight, and she shakes her head. Just then the waitress returns with a cup of coffee for Evelyn.
“Sugar?” I ask.
“Yes.” We both reach for the condiment at the same time, and I accidentally graze her hand. We draw back and apologize, but I’m not sorry at all. In fact, I want to touch her again.
Concentrating on the sugar dispenser, she pours a spoonful into her coffee and stirs, then sits back. “Your website pictures are beautiful and artistic. They’re creative and humorous.” She looks into her coffee. “They’re hot, too. But I can’t believe a Cartwright runs that blog.”
“I’ll prove it to you,” I say, and I stand up, hand on my belt.
“No, no, no,” she starts, holding up her hands.
“Relax.” I laugh and lower my voice. “I’m not gonna flash you. I was just going to prove that it’s really me.” And I push down the side of my pants and lift up my button-down shirt slightly, exposing part of my hip. “I have a mole right here. You can check the blog. It’s in every picture that shows my waist.”
She mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch. Then she looks at me. “Yes, I noticed the mole.” She swallows, her face burning bright.
I like that she’s taken a good look at my photos, studied them even, if she noticed the mole.
The thing is, the flush in her cheeks? Makes her even more beautiful. Dark hair, light eyes, and red cheeks? She looks like Snow White with a curvy body made for a man to explore.
I tuck my shirt back into my suit pants and pull out my wallet. After fishing out my driver’s license, I hand it to her. “Here you go, lovely. It’s all me.”
And again, I hear something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like, “It certainly is all you.”
I realize, too late, that I shouldn’t have used an endearment for her. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy. I just want you to know I am who I say I am. That I’m not bullshitting you.” I look into her eyes, now asking her to help me. Asking her to watch out for my interests and keep my secrets safe.
With an easy smile, she nods. “I believe you.”
For some reason, her saying that eases a pressure that’s been building in my chest since I started this whole escapade. Finally, the fact that I am anonymous, yet famous, is no longer just my secret.