Fleeting Impressions | J.M.

3: peaches and irish men

He stares for only a second before he turns back to the peaches, picking up a particularly juicy one. Reaching into his pocket with his right hand he pulls out a pocket knife.

Cold steal, military? No. Tactical, but not a standard issue. Plain, and black he flicks it open before stabbing the innocent fruit with a blank expression.

It's almost like a stand-off between the two of us. Which one is going to break first. I stand still, feet shoulder width apart and a calm exterior. But my mind is racing. Why can I not deduce him. Why is he so plain and dull? Is it a trick? Or am I just rusty?

An emotion flashes in his eyes for a split second, the knife twists in the flesh of the peach allowing liquid to flow into his hand.

He licks the stripe up his palm, catching the sticky substance. I look around at everyone in the grocery store, but no one seems to have noticed his erotic display.

Okay, he's a lot more interesting than he seems. So he's deliberately making himself closed off to my observations.

Absolutely intriguing.

Now that I'm close I see he is about half a foot taller than me. Slightly muscular, but not overly so.

His intentions, though, are hard to decipher. What could his show mean? He's done something similar in the ice cream shop twice now. I narrow my eyes and he finally crinkles his own and gives me a smile.

The effect is blinding and I have to remind myself to breathe. Why does his whole face light up when he smiles? Why does he look infinitely younger and more innocent in that moment?

And then he ruins it.

He licks the blade wolfishly. I take a step forward on instinct, trying to do something to stop him from hurting himself, but I don't allow myself to touch him. And he only smiles again at me.

My brow furrows and I take a step back, but he follows me forward and reaches out to drop his mangled peach in my basket at my side and snakes his hand around my waist. Just enough to keep me a few inches away from him. I can't create anymore distance.

"It was lovely seeing you again," the man's accent rings clear. His face moves forward to mine, and for a second my heart stops, thinking that he will kiss me. And why did my mind venture to such an atrocious idea. Despite all the anti-romance and sentiment I hated before, I wouldn't mind kissing this man in a grocery store.

"You too," I steel my voice to not give away anything I am experiencing on the inside. His hand slides lower, dangerously close to a certain area, before he steps back all together. A cold feeling he leaves in his wake.

"I'll see you again very shortly, Delia" my new nickname feeling awful on his tongue. For some reason, I want him to call me by my true name: Beretta.

The thought of his Irish voice caressing my name almost makes my cheeks flush. I growl low to myself, what is wrong with me? Emotions are for the weak minded and only cause problems. I can't stray into that territory. No matter how attractive he is.

Before I continue my journey to find some food for the week, I follow him with my eyes to another man that was watching us across the store. His eyes trained on the dark haired man the whole time. He's taller than him, wearing low waist jeans, the band visible. Grooming apparent. Gay.

Since I can't read the Irish man I would have to assume he is his partner. An open relationship maybe? He was being very provocative with me.

Well no reason to jump to conclusions. He's obviously not that interested in me. I watch as he returns to the other mans side and they seem to be drawn into a hushed conversation. Obviously intimate.

I sigh. Of course, the one man that has seemed to catch my attention is obviously unavailable. Why do the hot ones always have to be gay?

Despite working at an ice cream store, I pick up a pint on the way out.

It's only when I get home do I realize in my haze that I bought the peach that he had shoved in my basket.

And it wasn't random motions that he was twisting into the delicate flesh, but a heart.

A heart?

What could that mean?

I slump myself at the table with indignation. Glaring down at the offending object and then I look at the flowers.

Nah, I'm not that self centered to believe that a man as hot as him is my "secret admirer". And, for some reason, I can't imagine his adorable features and soft eyes as someone who would go by The Napoleon of Crime.

Thinking of the way he brushed himself against me, my pulse picks up.

I savagely bite into the peach.

Stupid heart.

—-
Authors note:

For all my Sherlock fans, feel free to browse my page to find completed (and amazing) stories in my reading lists. There is one labeled specifically for Sherlock fan fictions.