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“Guilty,” I say without looking at him. “I couldn’t pass up a chance to join the coffee mile-high club.”
His eyes flash with a wicked gleam when I realize my mistake.
“Are you done bothering me, Mr. Lancaster?”
He smirks at the flight attendant. “It’s fine. I know how Eliza gets.”
What? He doesn’t even know me.
Why is he acting so familiar?
First the flirting, and now this?
Did he really bring me on this trip for the sake of coffee science? What do I know about Kona beans, anyway? I’ve never picked them by hand.
The sudden crisis of confidence hits like a Mack truck.
“Why don’t you sit down? I’ve got this. I think we’re the only people left without coffee,” I say, ignoring how he squeezes into the tight space next to me.
Lancaster doesn’t move. If anything, he inches closer, watching how I tremble every time he brushes me and—oh, God. He’s enjoying this, isn’t he?
When I grab the new carafe, I almost elbow him in the gut on my way out.
“Do you mind? Like I said, I’ve got this.”
His look reminds me how very little I’ve got anything when it comes to self-control. I almost drop the coffee container on the floor.
When his hand darts around my wrist, I almost hit the ceiling.
I’m barely breathing as he moves his fingers slowly up my hand, gently lifting the carafe away from me.
“You’re shaking like a leaf with a container of hot liquid. Are you sure you don’t need a hand? Serving coffee isn’t below my pay grade, sweetheart,” he whispers.
Dear Lord.
I shake my head fiercely, until he gives up the carafe again when I reach for it, touching his fingers.
For the faintest second, my hip brushes his.
“I can handle my coffee, Mr. Lancaster, but...but thanks.” And because I can still feel his breath when he’s so achingly close, I add, “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”
He clears his throat loudly.
At first, my mangled words don’t register.
Shocked that this self-possessed man seems so flustered, I replay the last two lines in my head.
Oh. Shit.
It hits me what that must have sounded like.
Double entendre? More like death warrant.
He’s still staring at me as I turn, giving him an apologetic look.
“Umm—making airplane coffee. That’s what I meant! Not—y’know.” I stop cold and swallow. “It’s not any harder than doing it on the ground.”
The relieved smile that lights up his face almost makes me boneless.
He’s barely moved by the time I’m done serving everyone seconds and I squeeze past him again.
The galley’s tight, and Cole’s large, muscular body fills it.
Every accidental touch makes me eat my words.
There’s nothing soft about any inch of him whatsoever.
I’m sandwiched between him and the coffee pot bolted to the wall.
A fat bead of coffee splatters against hot metal and sizzles.
“Don’t know how they do this full-time. It’s steamy as hell in here.” His voice is low, all flames.
I think I just died.
I’m quiet so long he finally moves away, his heat trailing his heavy footsteps.
It’s been days since my fingers touched his lips and I saw myself kissing him.
I want to be reckless.
I want to turn around and bite him on the lower lip just to see how he responds.
Just to inject the slightest sanity back into my life by getting this craziness over and done with.
Then I remember his daughter is in the front row.
We’re on a plane full of senior staff, and he’s still my boss, basically a prince of Corporate America.
Seriously.
What kind of fresh, caffeinated crapstorm even is my life?
All the travel videos on social media can’t prepare me for Kona’s breathtaking beauty.
It’s lush and green and mountainous with a salty, sun-kissed breeze and strewn with colorful flowers bursting to life.
Even the airport is open, letting the outside in, immediately welcoming me to a different world than anything I’ve known.
Most of the gorgeous homes we pass on the SUV ride are that way, too.
Of course, Cole’s beachfront estate outshines them all.
It would be imposing if it weren’t for the soft red woodtones and tall windows. The place is just off a beachfront stolen from heaven, surrounded by acres and acres of coffee plants and greenery so bright it nearly burns my eyes.
The inside smells like orchids and sandalwood. Until now, I’ve never stepped inside a house that has its own perfume.
But in Kona, the Lancaster mystique has a scent.
When a friendly staffer shows me to my room and I step outside onto the open lanai, my jaw hits the floor.
It’s my own personal riviera. Manicured gardens, turquoise waters, gold-white sand, and blue, blue skies as far as the eye can see.
No postcard could ever capture this beauty.
No Instagram shot could ever do it justice.
And for however long we’re here, it’s mine, and I so don’t feel worthy. I’m floating through a freaking fairy tale.
Apparently, the whole team is staying at the estate, too. Cole had part of it refurbished for makeshift office space and meeting rooms before we arrived, and another wing set aside as guest rooms.
