coworkers at the NTSB. Back before the darkness of his profession had sent him crashing and burning .
Shaking off thoughts of the past, Randall opened the front door and stepped inside . The robust smell of coffee and the more delicate aromas of fresh-baked pastries and chocolate flowed over him, filling him with the vaguely pleasant memories of a childhood he hadn't remembered in years . Soft yellow light rained down from overhead tulip lamps, casting circular shadows onto a long, marble-topped bar. A row of old-fashioned stools ran the length of the bar. Several bistro tables were scattered near the front window. Tony Bennett's smooth - as - silk voice filled the shop with music from a simpler era .
The Coffee Cup was upscale and small , like many of the businesses , restaurants , and microbreweries that were revitalizing Denver's lower downtown.
It was closing time and the place was nearly empty . A man in a trench coat sat at the bar sipping coffee and browsing through the morning edition of the The Denver Post. A young couple shared a cappuccino at a comer bistro table.
Randall spotted Addison behind the bar and felt his mouth go dry. It was an odd reaction for a man who hadn't felt much of anything in the last six months. The company shrink had slapped a technical name on his emotional isolation , but Randall didn't put much weight in doctors, especially the nonmedical type .
He knew it wasn ' t wise for him to be there. He didn't like the responses this woman evoked. It had been a long time since he'd cared what somebody thought of him. He wondered how she would react if she knew he was a mental case . Of course , she probably already thought he was one.
Randall was thankful her back was to him since he wasn't sure how she was going to respond to his being there. He approached the bar slowly , watching her, wondering how he could have ever mistaken her for a topless dancer . Not that she didn't have the body for it. She most definitely did. But he could tell by her body language that she wasn't the type of woman who enjoyed being the center of attention.
She was vigorously scrubbing a stainless steel sink, oblivious of his approach. Her shoulders were slender with a rigid set. The black turtleneck she wore hugged a body that was willowy and nicely shaped. Because of the height of the bar, he couldn't see the rest of her and, frankly, he was glad for it. It wouldn't do him any good to waste his time thinking about how she filled out her jeans or wondering just how long those legs of hers were.
She was at least ten years his junior. Probably shallow-minded and immature to boot. Definitely not his type. Not that he was interested, he quickly reminded himself. A quick apology, a cup of coffee, and he was out of there.
Randall slid onto a stool and set the manila folder on the bar in front of him. He watched her work, mesmerized, amazed that a woman could look so damn sexy cleaning a sink. Her hair was mink brown and fell to her shoulders in unruly waves. From where he sat, he recognized the citrus and musk scent of her perfume from that day in his office. The warm, exotic scent he'd dreamed about on more than one occasion in the last three weeks.
As if she possessed some kind of sixth sense and had been alerted to the route his mind had taken, she straightened, then slowly turned. Clutching a pink sponge in one hand and a container of industrial-strength scouring powder in the other, she stared at him through brown, doe-like eyes. For an instant, the corners of her mouth turned up ill a smile that would have been dazzling—had she not ultimately recognized him.
He knew it the instant she did. Her smile faded. Her eyes cooled. She set down the scouring powder with a resonant thud. "I'm getting ready to close."
"The sign says you don't close for another ten minutes," he said.
Wordlessly, she turned away and left her place behind the bar. At the front door, she
Shaking off thoughts of the past, Randall opened the front door and stepped inside . The robust smell of coffee and the more delicate aromas of fresh-baked pastries and chocolate flowed over him, filling him with the vaguely pleasant memories of a childhood he hadn't remembered in years . Soft yellow light rained down from overhead tulip lamps, casting circular shadows onto a long, marble-topped bar. A row of old-fashioned stools ran the length of the bar. Several bistro tables were scattered near the front window. Tony Bennett's smooth - as - silk voice filled the shop with music from a simpler era .
The Coffee Cup was upscale and small , like many of the businesses , restaurants , and microbreweries that were revitalizing Denver's lower downtown.
It was closing time and the place was nearly empty . A man in a trench coat sat at the bar sipping coffee and browsing through the morning edition of the The Denver Post. A young couple shared a cappuccino at a comer bistro table.
Randall spotted Addison behind the bar and felt his mouth go dry. It was an odd reaction for a man who hadn't felt much of anything in the last six months. The company shrink had slapped a technical name on his emotional isolation , but Randall didn't put much weight in doctors, especially the nonmedical type .
He knew it wasn ' t wise for him to be there. He didn't like the responses this woman evoked. It had been a long time since he'd cared what somebody thought of him. He wondered how she would react if she knew he was a mental case . Of course , she probably already thought he was one.
Randall was thankful her back was to him since he wasn't sure how she was going to respond to his being there. He approached the bar slowly , watching her, wondering how he could have ever mistaken her for a topless dancer . Not that she didn't have the body for it. She most definitely did. But he could tell by her body language that she wasn't the type of woman who enjoyed being the center of attention.
She was vigorously scrubbing a stainless steel sink, oblivious of his approach. Her shoulders were slender with a rigid set. The black turtleneck she wore hugged a body that was willowy and nicely shaped. Because of the height of the bar, he couldn't see the rest of her and, frankly, he was glad for it. It wouldn't do him any good to waste his time thinking about how she filled out her jeans or wondering just how long those legs of hers were.
She was at least ten years his junior. Probably shallow-minded and immature to boot. Definitely not his type. Not that he was interested, he quickly reminded himself. A quick apology, a cup of coffee, and he was out of there.
Randall slid onto a stool and set the manila folder on the bar in front of him. He watched her work, mesmerized, amazed that a woman could look so damn sexy cleaning a sink. Her hair was mink brown and fell to her shoulders in unruly waves. From where he sat, he recognized the citrus and musk scent of her perfume from that day in his office. The warm, exotic scent he'd dreamed about on more than one occasion in the last three weeks.
As if she possessed some kind of sixth sense and had been alerted to the route his mind had taken, she straightened, then slowly turned. Clutching a pink sponge in one hand and a container of industrial-strength scouring powder in the other, she stared at him through brown, doe-like eyes. For an instant, the corners of her mouth turned up ill a smile that would have been dazzling—had she not ultimately recognized him.
He knew it the instant she did. Her smile faded. Her eyes cooled. She set down the scouring powder with a resonant thud. "I'm getting ready to close."
"The sign says you don't close for another ten minutes," he said.
Wordlessly, she turned away and left her place behind the bar. At the front door, she
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