I turned back to end this conversation. “Listen, Chewie—”
“Albert. My name is Albert.” He leaned closer and he wrinkled his forehead in such a way that made it obvious he was fishing for my name. He can keep on fishing because that was on a need-to-know basis. My mother always said, “Evaleen Bechmann, you are being paranoid,” but in the age of the Internet, giving him my name could be as powerful as giving him a knife.
In a way, I felt bad for Chewie-Albert. The poor guy obviously never learned how to deal with a woman. He believed groping me and refusing to take the hint that I didn’t want to go out with him was normal. And that’s just sad he’s so
oblivious.
“Okay, Albert. You seem like a nice, if not, handsy Star Wars . . . purist. You got a
killer costume that any other Star Wars purist of the female species would love—”
“I hear ya.” He winked, nodding as his eyes perused my form.
Sighing, I realized in that moment the Wookie wasn’t getting it. I shouldn’t be surprised, every man I had met hadn’t gotten it. They touched and they took, but they didn’t understand. That’s why I avoided them. Preferring to remain alone.
“I am not that female, Albert. I am the type of female who chooses to not dress in fur costumes, or skimpy princess costumes, or costumes in general. This female just likes to stand in a line and be left alone. So, good luck finding your princess, but I am as far from a princess as you will find around here.”
His shining brown eyes dimmed as my words began to sink in. Before he could get any more
Wookie courage, I turned back to find the blonde still at the counter.
Normally, I left people alone because, unlike Albert, I respected their space. But
surviving on only three hours of sleep before an interview for a job that I needed, action was necessary.
Taking a step forward, I tapped the blonde on her bulbous shoulder and took a breath.
“Excuse me, Miss, but I believe it has been ten minutes, which is plenty of time to order your drink. Some of us don’t have the luxury of time, and were kept up by our roommate doing gymnastics in bed with her boyfriend until four
in the morning.” I gritted my teeth and shook my head trying to get back on point. “So, if you wouldn’t mind placing your order and letting the rest of us have a turn . . .”
Just as I finished, the woman turned to face me. She had a beard. Also, an Adam’s apple.
The woman wasn’t a she but a he. He had a beard, lush and blond like his long hair, not
fake and matted like Albert’s costume. His eyes were the most beautiful gray, like smoke rising from a smoldering fire. They slid over my face.
I shivered.
“Miss?” His deep, velvety tone came out thick as butter and rendered me utterly catatonic.
The timbre of his voice like a sonic boom under my skin. His skin, on the other hand, remained still, smooth, and my fingers, for reasons I am attributing to lack of sleep, twitched to touch any part of him.
His eyes widened at what I could only assume was disbelief. Disbelief that a woman of twenty-six years would be referring to a fine specimen of a man, a manly man if you will, as a woman. Despite his thick blond mane and skirted attire, he was all muscle.
I realized this man was in costume too, like Chewie. Only this man was dressed like the
Scottish hero William Wallace and not a sweaty sci-fi version of Sasquatch. He even painted his face blue and white.
One would think that a tall man with thick muscles and a wild painted face would instill
fear in me, but no. Instead of running in terror, I did the opposite. I laid my hands on him. My fingers caressed his chest working their way down. Doing the exact thing I just lectured Albert not to do. I should have probably stopped.
But I didn’t.
Never in my life had I taken advantage of anyone in this manner but he gave off some
pheromone that screamed sex me with your hands. Sensing quickly how firm his chest was it propelled me farther down, down to his abs. The man had a six-pack or maybe even an eight-pack; whatever pack was hiding under that brown threadbare piece of cashmere was making my heart race and lady parts start to
turn savage themselves.
“What are you doing?”
He was still there and I was still in the coffee shop. This wasn’t a dream. The kilted blond’s voice broke me out of my self-gratifying pawing and I realized I was feeling him up, or down as the case may be.
What are you doing, Evaleen?
I froze before snapping my hands away. I began to smooth out my unwrinkled brown blazer as if I wasn’t a chest molester and nothing out of the ordinary just happened.
Clearing my throat, I tried to salvage what little dignity I had left.
“I . . . I . . .” Was all I could get out before I turned to look at the raven-haired barista who either had a rare eye condition that caused her to shoot fire at anyone she laid eyes upon, or she hated me right now. I was going with the
latter, so I turned my gaze to the line of customers who had their phones turned up to face me as they filmed what had been occurring. Including Albert.
Great, not only am I mortified, but I will now be some viral Internet sensation known only
as, The Woman Chest Molester.
Now it was the kilter’s turn to tap his foot as he folded his thick, strong arms in front of himself in protection from the mad chest molester. He’ll probably tell tales to his future kids and grandkids of the crazy chest molester. “Be wary of her,” he’d say in a low warning with his dialect suddenly turning from American to
Scottish. After all, he was dressed as William Wallace.
As he crept down to their eye level, and as
the window panes would rattle from the storm that swirled outside his Scottish
castle, he would whisper, “For if wee girls and boys don’t do as they’re told, the wiry fingers of the deranged chest molester will grab hold!” The kids would cower, holding their blankets to their little faces; one girl would begin to
cry as he wrapped his powerful arms gently around her tiny frame in comfort.
He’d calm her as he broke out into an old Gaelic tune.
I start humming out loud the only Gaelic tune I know, which wasn’t really a Gaelic tune but it’s Scottish, so close enough.
The barista interrupted my musical display, “Is that ‘I Would Walk 500 Miles’?”
I frowned in shame at what I had become in these past few minutes.
“Blue eyes,” the kilted blond mumbled as he stared at me.
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New York Times/USA Today bestselling author Melanie Moreland, lives a happy and content life in a quiet area of Ontario with her beloved husband of twenty-seven-plus years and their rescue cat Amber. Nothing means more to her than her friends and family, and she cherishes every moment spent with them. 
