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“It’s just coffee,” I mutter. “It’s not that hard.”
Thathe hears. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he greets me with piercing eyes in a color I’ve only seen once before—in the clear blue-green waters of the Adriatic Sea off the coast of Croatia. Jacques Cousteau declared those waters to be the cleanest on the planet, and I don’t doubt it, given that I could see the sea floor through sixty feet of water.
Even in the throwaway glance, this man’s eyes look sharp, discerning. Like they don’t miss a thing.
Ironic.
“Sorry?” It’s more like the purr of an expensive car engine than a word.
His eyes roll over my face and down my body like he’s assessing a piece of art at an auction, looking for its hidden value and its flaws. I offer the same perusal in return, noting the sharpline of his jaw under a couple days of scruff and the strong jut of his chin. And his pecs give the worn fabric of his shirt a run for its money. It just might rip if he inhales.
I hope he inhales.
No, I don’t. Because I need to get my daily caffeine fix and get out. He’s just taking up space and time in my day, and that’s nothing but annoying. And spoiler alert: this auction item has no flaws, at least none visible to me. This man is absurdly gorgeous, which is a red flag in itself.
Warning, contents may not accurately reflect their packaging.
Spoiler alert—in my experience, they never do.
I could clear my throat and pretend that what he heard was an errant noise without any meaning. But I don’t have much of a filter before my first cup of coffee, and he’s made me wait longer than usual for mine.
“It’s just…pick something. Anything! You can’t really go wrong when you’re just talking about combinations of beans and hot water and weird milks. It’s all just coffee. It’s not astrophysics.”
He turns the rest of the way around to face me. I expect an irritated glare because I’ve butted straight into his coffee business, where I have no reason to do so. The hard line of his jaw and the heated flash of those blue eyes make it clear he’s done his share of glaring, but that’s not how he’s looking at me. Not exactly.
He seems more…curious. Tilting his head to the side, he studies me like I’m an interesting new species. Or a bug he’s about to squash with one fist.
“Not astrophysics, eh?”
My cheeks flame, and my brain fires, ready to explain astrophysics to the knowledge-impaired, even though my onlyreal knowledge of the subject comes fromAstrophysics for People in a Hurry, and I’m in more of a hurry than most people.
His eyes roam over my face, where I know my bottom lip juts out because I’m just that exasperated in anticipation of the coffee I really need. Right now, it’s the only thing that will allow my brain to understand what’s happening before me.
He brushes a hand through the wet strands of hair, which looked perfectly tousled a moment ago and looks even more so now. Then his lips part, and he exhales a long breath. “Slangry?” he asks.
My mouth opens, then closes again. I intend to answer, but I have no idea what he means with his question. “Um…”
“Sleepy and angry?”
“Um…” If I’d finished the drink he’s denying me, I’d have a better answer.
“And I’m what’s standing between you and caffeinated salvation.”
“I…yes, exactly,” I admit. From his confident perusal of me and his large stature, he looks like someone who’s accustomed to being right. No reason to begrudge him. Except that he’s annoying.
He takes a slightly exaggerated step to the side and extends his hand, ushering me to the spot he just occupied in front of Meagan. “By all means.” The gesture reeks of smugness, like somehow he thinks he has the upper hand even though he’s the one who doesn’t have the basic skills to order a drink.
I’m “slangry” enough that I don’t have the wherewithal to tell him where he can shove hismeans. I smile at Meagan and order my usual latte with oat milk, bristling at the quiet chuckle I hear beside me.
“Oat milk. I didn’t even think of that,” he says. I’m tempted to ask him what rock he crawled from behind when he’s clearly never seen a half-caf, two-shot, caramel skim macchiato likea normal person. He beats me to it by telling Meagan, “Her coffee’s on me.”
Now I’m stunned.
First of all, my coffee is on the house because my family owns the café, which is a part of Buttercup Hill vineyards. We’ve been family-run since my grandfather started the winery with one strain of grapes several decades ago. Our father grew it into an empire, and some big shots invested money in it. Now we distribute to stores and restaurants all over the world. The story is printed on placards all over the property as a kind of homey origin story that guests love.
I’m not stunned because I expect him to know all that. It’s that I can’t think of the last time someone offered to buy me a cup of coffee. A part of me likes the gallant gesture, even if it’s coming from this strange man who’s been cock-blocking my caffeine until this moment.
“N-no. You don’t have to do that,” I tell him, not intending to explain why he doesn’t need to pay.
