The Artist's Wife (BWWM)

Chapter 3~ Marry

From the Mexican guy that proposed at the beachside to the Latino that had gotten the whole bar to participate in the proposal.

My answer was still the same because they didn't deserve the emotional trauma of being with me, they should look for a woman that truly deserved them and had the capability of loving with her whole heart. I was saving them a whole lot of stress and they didn't know.

They deserved better. Not an undeserving woman like me.

Sure, Daniel was cute and all with his pale blonde hair, cornflower blue eyes and that mischievous grin but I wasn't the least bit interested.

"It's complicated." I made my way to the barista behind the counter. He was leaning against the counter completely absorbed with a book.

Not that I could blame him, business was slow and there were hardly any customers in the shop.

"Daniel, we'll talk later. I'm kind of busy with some stuff now." Liar, liar pants on fire.

He sighed, he probably knew I was lying. "Okay, I call you later. I love you, Rina." He paused as if waiting for me to say it back.

It was never happening, those words couldn't tumble out of my mouth even if I wanted them to. I was a lost cause.

I heard him sigh before ending the call, poor guy. I tapped the counter with my nails to get the attention of the absorbed barista.

He looked up slowly, a grin creeping to his face and lighting up his whole features. He had dark caramel skin, a thick, black afro and a gap-toothed smile.

Cute.

He looked like he was in his early twenties. Say...twenty-one or twenty-two.

Age had never stopped me before and I would totally hit on him if I was in a better mood. I mean, I was just twenty-six, not dead. I just had to turn on the charm and watch them drool.

"Well, this dull day just brightened thanks to you," he said, putting on a slow, easy smile. "Your presence just lights up the room."

This was too easy, but I wasn't in the mood to be hit on by younger guys. I actually used to get off on it back in my college days, watching young boys trip and fall over me had been quite amusing.

"Flattery doesn't work on me," I told him, slipping my phone into the back pocket of my torn Levi's. "Try offering me a free latte and maybe we'll talk."

He stood straighter and stared me straight in the eye. "Would that actually work?"

"Of course not," I snorted. "I was joking."

"Was worth a shot," he sighed, putting a bookmark into his novel and starting my order. "Where are you from? You have really nice skin." He asked, openly checking me out.

I smiled a bit before answering his question, people tended to ask me that question a lot because of my fair skin colour. I was a mongrel of races which resulted in my light gold skin.

"Part South African, part Scottish and part Filipino," I told him, proudly.

He grinned at me, showing off his unique tooth and I wondered about his own race too.

"You?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Purely Nigerian, but was born here." That explained why he didn't have an accent, he sounded like any basic New Yorker.

"Nice." I meant the compliment, truly.

"You know," he started, conversationally. "Gandhi once said an opportunity is like boiling water. You lose it as fast as you get it."