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“Excuse me, did you drop this?”

Sasha thought it was a rather obvious question as she turned to face the man who had asked. How annoying could one person be? Did you drop this? Of course she dropped the money. Wasn’t he standing in line right behind her? Didn’t he see her bend to catch the coins before they tinkered onto the floor and rolled away from her grasp? Why was Monday morning always a nightmare?

But as the face came into view, Sasha lost all train of thought, and anything that was adding to her frustration of being late for work, on the first day of the week, just melted into oblivion.

He was a poster pin-up sight in the morning glow of the small coffee shop. His warm brown hair was haloed by the sun, which slanted through the Venetian blinds behind him, making him look somewhat angelic. He had the greenest eyes Sasha had ever seen, reminiscent of staring into the cool depths of an emerald lake. When he smiled his teeth were straight rows of polished pearls, a small dimple creasing the edges of his mouth. His skin was the colour of burnt honey; his arms covered in fine golden hairs, and long tapered fingers to finish large, labouring hands. His white t-shirt, possibly one or two sizes too small, framed his muscular torso, extending down into a pair of work overalls he had tied around his waist with the empty arms.

Sasha smiled. “Yes, thank you.” She reached out to take the coins. As she moved to pull them from his grasp he clamped his hand over hers, letting his own fingers run softly down the length of her hand. Before she could control it, she let out a small gasp. He was smiling, teasing her so obviously, as he let his hand drop to his side once more.

“You’re welcome.” His voice was like molasses; oozing words in velvet tones only Sasha could hear. Self-consciously she glanced around at the queue to see if anybody else was watching them. The other people in line were oblivious to their existence, all focused on their own agendas of getting coffee and bagels and heading off to work. Quickly she spun round and faced the front of the queue once more, her cheeks rising to red with embarrassment.

The middle-aged man at the counter now took his polystyrene cup of steaming coffee and headed toward the door. Everyone in line shuffled forward, and Sasha put her coins back in the purse they had escaped from. Her hands were clammy, leaving little outlines of her fingers on the red leather as she dropped her hand and wiped it quickly on her pants. Then she glanced at her watch, knowing full well only a minute had passed since she last looked there. She sighed. She was going to be so late.

“Let me guess, you’re running late?”

There he was again, right behind her. He had moved up in the line, so close behind her she could feel his breath on her ear as he spoke. She quivered and closed her eyes, trying to keep her composure. He was taller than her by nearly a foot, and she could feel the warmth of him radiating through her clothes.

“Uh-huh.” She wondered briefly how one person could smell so god damn wonderful. She half turned and smiled back at him. “I really should skip the coffee and just get there.”

He pointed to the front of the line, his arm brushing hers faintly. “Well, you’re nearly there now, what’s another two minutes?”

She laughed, but inwardly she was thinking another two minutes standing this close to him, and she might just burst.

“Well, its two minutes that will cost me an hour’s pay.” She smiled sweetly, trying not to get lost in the ocean of his green eyes.

“Ah,” he nodded knowingly, his eyebrows pulling together to crease his forehead, “Well, if you’re already that late, you should consider not going at all.”

“Not going-?” she frowned then realized what he meant, “Oh, you mean like pull a sickie?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He grinned.

Sasha had never rung in sick to a job, when she wasn’t, in the eight years of her working life. The thought had never crossed her mind. Other people did it, she knew that, but to Sasha it was something she would only do if there were no other way to get out of work. If she needed a day off, she applied for it. If she was genuinely sick, then she rang in, but even then she felt incredibly guilty.

She shook her head, “No, I don’t think so.”

“Come on,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t you rather be anywhere else but in this line, stressed to the max, about getting to work on time? How good would it feel to just flag the day, have a freebie?”