The Billionaire Unexpected Evening

fin'

cing me fully, yet her picture remains—a persistent ghost drawing strokes of guilt over my conscience. My thoughts are not preoccupied with the stain on my cl

uiring warmth that pervades the icy precision of my daily life. I find myself laughing at the silliness of the situation—Gri

her embrace of my automobile, Calla's picture appears before me, stubbornly bright against the sterile inside of my limousi

r-observant driver, questions me in the rearview mirror

ulated with conviction. "Just a little in

cal laughter seemed to fill the spaces between my ribs. There was an ine

ncerned with the agony it causes in the souls it houses. My thoughts are a maelstrom, concentrating on the moment when the sca

rns with stoic elegance. But Calla, with her unfettered smile and coffee-stained apron, defies that stoic

s who scurry about, competent and anonymous. My attire, now a painting of deep splotches, raises a few heads, but

But this isn't the end; it's a comma, a pause in the story that is my life. And as I sit behind my desk, the me

coffee nor for the atmosphere, but for the opportunity to investigate this unexpected spark, to see w

e first time in a long time, I am looking forward to t

that may change the tenor of my existence. Calla, the barista with ocean-deep eyes, a