Free January: A Dear Diary Short Story (Dear Diary Short Stories Book 1) by Skye Turner

 
     
     
     
    Dear Diary,
     
     
    I saw him today. He was at the coffee shop again when I stopped for my morning jolt. His wavy brown hair was spilling messily over his forehead and he was once again covered in paint. I guess he pulled another all-nighter.
    I know I said the next time I saw him I was finally going to muster up the courage to speak to him, but once I was there and he was in my sight, I lost my nerve.
    He’s just so beautiful. His hair, those eyes, those strong hands… always covered in paint. I have all these conversations in my head with him but when I’m actually near enough to talk to him, to walk the short distance to his table, to reach out and touch him… I just can’t find the nerve.
    They called his name out as his coffee was ready. Julien. Even his name causes a reaction in my stomach.
    His blue eyes raised from watching himself picking the paint on his nails and he caught me staring at him. I gasped and looked away, but I had to look back. He was watching me. I felt my cheeks pinken as he smiled at me. He almost looked like he wanted to walk over. My pulse started racing and I felt a bead of sweat form between my breasts.
    My name being called jolted me from the intensity of his gaze and I quickly turned and grabbed my coffee before racing for the door.
    I’m such an idiot. Why does he affect me so?!
    Tomorrow… tomorrow is the day. I’ll talk to him.
     
    I groan and flop back against my pillow as I close my journal. Dammit, Ramsee! If I keep this up, I’ll never talk to him. I’m shy. I always have been, but I’m not a wallflower. Julien makes me crazy though. I’ve been watching him for four months. When I say it like that, it makes me feel like a stalker.
    Ok, I’ve been seeing him in the coffee shop I frequent for a few months. He caught my eye the first time I saw him because of his chiseled face, amazing physique, and the fact that he was covered in paint.
    Since then, I see him about four times a week when I stop for my coffee before work. I’m something of a coffee addict and I need the jolt to become a human and function at work.
    Every day, I swear I’ll talk to him, but when the time comes, his beauty turns me into an idiot and I falter. But not tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will talk to him!
    As I get comfortable under my comforter, in my studio apartment close to LSU, thoughts of Julien fill my head. I find myself unable to stop my hands from trailing down my stomach and reaching my center. I’m already wet from the wicked thoughts running rampant in my head.
     
    We’re in the showroom of the gallery. The pale blue silk robe I’m wearing is caressing my skin as the breeze wafts in through the open window. Julien is at his canvas. It’s cold outside, but the bright lights of the gallery have the temperature resembling a tropical island in here. He’s opened the window to allow some of the cold January air to filter in and cool the room.
    He points to the fainting couch he’s laid in the center of the display. He’s using the light to accentuate my body so he can capture the lush curves.
    Without a word, I walk over to the antique replica and perch on the end. He sets his brush down and strolls over to meet me. As he covers the distance, my pulse races and my nipples bead beneath the silk of the robe. When he reaches me, he traces my face with his paint splattered finger. His finger follows the curve of my cheek whisper soft, then he runs it over my chin and down my neck before it dips into the deep “v” of my robe. My breath catches.
    He chuckles. “Breathe, Ramsee.”
    My green eyes meet the blue of his and the corner of my mouth turns up. “Oh, I’m breathing.”
    He leans down and stops centimeters from my face. His hands reach out and pull my blonde hair over one shoulder before he pulls the robe down on one side. He stops just as the fullness of my right breast is revealed. His finger trails over the cusp of my breast before he lightly taps my erect nipple,