Ex- fiance's Regret 1-3

"Are you kidding me?" Sharon cried, her voice cracking as she glared at Pete across the sticky pub table.

Pete leaned back, his expression so infuriatingly calm he looked like he was settling in for a nap rather than dismantling her entire life. "Come on, Sharon. It’s better this way. For both of us."

Sharon shook her head, the fluorescent lights of the bar blurring as her eyes welled up. She couldn't wrap her mind around the cruelty of it. Pete had taken her out on a "date"—their usual Thursday night spot—only to drop this. Who breaks up with someone over a basket of fries?

"How is it better?" she asked, her hands trembling so hard she had to hide them in her lap. "We’ve been together for two years, Pete. We were talking about the future. You’re just throwing it all away."

"I’m not throwing it away, babe." He reached across the table, his fingers grazing her knuckles. "I'm just being realistic."

"Don't call me that," she snapped, jerking her hand back as if his touch burned. "You’re dumping me. You don't get to use pet names anymore. Use my name or don't say anything at all."

Pete sighed, the sound sharp and impatient. "Fine, Sharon. I’m trying to be nice here, and you’re making it very difficult to have a civil conversation."

Sharon let out a jagged, sarcastic laugh. "Oh, I’m so sorry! I’ll be sure to take notes on proper breakup etiquette so the next time you decide to ruin my life, I can be more polite about it."

"Don’t be like this," he muttered, looking around to see if anyone was watching.

"I’ll be however the hell I want," Sharon said, standing up so abruptly her chair screeched against the floorboards. "You don't get to make demands. You don't get to tell me how to feel. We’re done, right? Then I'm leaving."

"Wait," Pete said, looking down at the bill the waitress had just dropped. "We’re not going Dutch on the check? You had the stout."

Sharon’s mouth dropped open. The sheer pettiness of it felt like a slap. "Get the check yourself, asshole," she spat, turning her back on him before the first sob could escape.

She held it together until she hit the sidewalk. The Los Angeles night was humid, the air smelling of exhaust and stale jasmine. By the time she reached the bus stop halfway down the block, the tears were a flood. She fumbled with her phone, her blurred vision making it hard to find the right contact.

"He dumped me," Sharon wailed the moment Deby picked up.

"What? Sharon, oh my God, are you okay?"

"I'm at the bus stop," she choked out. "He bought me a drink, we shared those greasy fries I love, and then—bam. He told me he wasn't ready for a commitment. After two years! I thought we were moving in together!"

"I don't believe this," Deby said, her voice rising in protective fury. "Hold on, I’m bringing Silver in. We need a full council for this."

A moment later, Silver’s voice joined the line. The three of them had been inseparable since their freshman year. Sharon was the art major, the dreamer; Deby was in communications; and Silver was the future teacher. They were the only stable thing in Sharon's world.

"Sharon? Deby said Pete is a dead man. What happened?" Silver asked.

"I’m fine," Sharon lied, leaning her head against the cold metal of the bus stop sign. "I just... I left him with the bill. We always split it, but I just walked out."

"Good!" Silver shouted. "He doesn't deserve a penny of your money or a second of your time. He’s been dragging his feet for months, Sharon. You were way too nice to him."

"That's my problem," Sharon whispered. "I'm always the secondary character. I put everyone else first and I end up being the one standing at a bus stop alone while he worries about the price of a beer."

"Which is exactly why you need a rebound," Deby declared. "Tonight. You need to find a hottie who doesn't know your name and let him make you forget Pete ever existed."

"A rebound? I don't do rebounds," Sharon said, watching the headlights of a distant bus. "I'm a long-term girl. I don't even know how to have a one-night stand."

"We’ll help you!" Silver said enthusiastically. "We’ll go out, get you comfortably blurred on cocktails, and we’ll pick the guy for you. Someone tall, dark, and definitely not Pete."

"I can't. I have a shift at the café tonight," Sharon said, checking her watch.

"Call out!" Deby groaned.

"I can't. I'm saving for..." Sharon stopped. She had been saving for an apartment with Pete. Now that money was just a bitter reminder of a ghost. "I still need the money. I’ll talk to you guys tomorrow, okay? My bus is here."

The ride to her student housing was a blur of neon signs and palm trees. Sharon felt numb. She went through the motions of changing into her work uniform—the black apron over her dark jeans—and headed to Café Noir.

The café was her sanctuary. By day, it was a quiet spot for hand-brewed coffee and students studying; by night, it transformed into a dimly lit lounge with craft beers and a sophisticated cocktail menu.

"Hey, Sharon," her coworker Xander said as she stepped behind the counter for the 5:00 PM shift. He was finishing up his afternoon run. "Whoa. You okay? You look like you went ten rounds with a ghost."

"Just exams, Xander. I’m fine," Sharon said quickly, grabbing a rag to wipe down an already clean counter.

"You’ve got those days off coming up, right? Use them to sleep," he said sympathetically before heading out.

Sharon threw herself into the work. She took orders for lattes and iced teas, her movements robotic. As the sun set and the lighting dimmed, the orders shifted to gin fizzes and dark stouts. She focused on the measurements, the shake of the tins, the garnish of the glass—anything to keep from thinking about Pete.

But her mind was a traitor. Every time a couple walked in, she felt a pang of envy so sharp it made her stomach ache. She began to wonder if her friends were right. Was she too boring? Too safe?

"Two black coffees and the best stout you’ve got on tap," a voice said.

It wasn't a loud voice, but it had a certain resonance that cut through the ambient jazz of the café. Sharon looked up, ready to give her standard customer service smile, and felt the world tilt on its axis.

The man standing at the counter was, quite simply, the most beautiful human being she had ever seen. He had eyes the color of a summer sky—piercing blue and framed by thick, dark lashes. His face looked like it had been carved by a master sculptor, with a strong jawline and sun-tanned skin that suggested he spent his mornings on the sand. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried an effortless confidence that made Sharon feel suddenly very breathless.

"Right... right behind you," Sharon managed to stammer. It was a miracle she could speak at all.

She turned around to pull the coffee, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Two coffees. One stout. Simple. She could do this. She focused on the steam wand, her hands trembling slightly. She didn't usually react to men this way—certainly not while she was grieving a breakup—but this man was different. He felt... heavy. Like his very presence changed the air pressure in the room.

She set the coffees down and turned to the taps to pour the beer. When she returned to the counter, he was smiling at her. It wasn't a smirk or a polite customer grin; it was a warm, devastating smile that sent a swarm of butterflies straight into her stomach.

"That'll be eighteen dollars," she said, calculating the price quickly.

He pulled out a thick wad of bills, peeled off a fifty, and pushed it toward her. "Keep the change," he said, his voice smooth as silk.

"Thanks. Let me get you a tray for those," Sharon said, her voice sounding higher than usual. She handed him the drinks, her fingers brushing his for a split second. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm, and she nearly dropped the stout.

"Thanks," he said with another one of those heart-stopping smiles.

She watched him walk away, her eyes glued to the breadth of his back. He moved toward a corner table where another man and a woman were waiting. Sharon felt a sudden, sharp drop in her gut. Of course. A man like that wouldn't be alone.

She spent the next few hours sneaking glances at their table. She watched their body language like a hawk. Eventually, the other man leaned over and kissed the woman. Sharon felt a rush of relief that embarrassed her. They were the couple. Blue-Eyes was the third wheel.

As the night wore on and the clock ticked toward midnight, the café began to empty out. The group eventually rose and left, and Sharon felt a strange sense of loss as she watched the door swing shut behind them. Guys like that didn't go for girls like her. He was a lead actor; she was just the girl behind the counter.

She started the closing procedures, wiping down the tables and stacking the chairs. It was almost one in the morning, and the silence of the café was heavy. She was alone in the front, her mind finally drifting back to the cold reality of Pete and her empty apartment.

"Excuse me."

Sharon froze. She knew that voice. She turned around, her heart jumping into her throat.

He was back. He was standing at the counter, alone this time, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that made her legs feel like jelly.

"I realized I didn't get your name," he said, leaning his elbows on the wooden surface.

Sharon gripped her cleaning rag. "It's... it's Sharon. Sharon Spark."

"Sharon," he repeated, the name sounding like music when he said it. "I’m Luthor. And I think you’ve had a very bad day, Sharon Spark."

Sharon stared at him, her defenses crumbling under that steady blue gaze. "How did you know?"

"You have the eyes of someone who just lost something," Luthor said softly. "But you also have the eyes of someone who’s tired of being the one who loses."

Sharon couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. The rebound her friends had joked about was standing right in front of her, and he looked like he could offer her a lot more than just a distraction.

"The café is closed, Luthor," she whispered.

"I know," he said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "But the night is just getting started."