Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
JULIUS
I smell it before I see it.
“ Open your own coffee shop ,” they said. “ It’ll be great, ” they said.
They didn’t consider the lack of available skilled baristas in Stillwater, or bakers for that matter. Or that my kitchen seems to be extra combustible? I really should look into dating a firefighter.
Like you have time to date.
Why didn’t I open in the city?
Because you hate the city, dumbass.
“On the house,” I say to my customer with a smile, placing extra marshmallows on the hot chocolate I just finished preparing and setting it on the counter. She stares at me, but I don’t have time to explain that if I stop to charge her, I’ll lose far more than the cost of the drink.
The fire extinguisher is within arm’s reach, so I grab it and rush to the kitchen.
Billowing smoke hits me as I push open the kitchen door. The second thing to hit me is the kid who only started working for me last week.
“I quit. Please don’t sue me.” He coughs.
I can’t see an actual fire, so I take a few short strides to the back door, open it, and let the smoke out. The chill of the Connecticut fall is a welcome relief from the heat in the kitchen.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to show a calm I’m really not feeling, but I know I’m a big dude, and the kid already looks ready to shit his pants.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I set the timer to make sure the toast didn’t burn. I was checking my messages on my phone and then there was smoke. Lots of smoke. Like everywhere. ”
I glance at the oven.
I choose calm. I choose calm, I repeat to myself as I open the oven door, releasing even more smoke into the small space.
“Which timer did you set?” I ask when what I really want to know is how long he’d been lost in his phone that he hadn’t noticed what was happening.
“That one.” He points to the oven timer, which was timing the baking of a batch of brownies for an order. I’ve had a lot of fires in this kitchen, but burning two things at the same time is a first.
“Did you think of using the timer on the wall next to the toaster?”
The kid purses his lips in an O , but no sound comes out.
“Do you agree that maybe this job isn’t for you?”
“You can’t fire me because I’ve already quit.”
I want to shout that it’s just semantics because either way, I’m now without an assistant and down a batch of brownies for an order. The brownies aren’t for just any customer. Fletcher is a friend, and he’s going to be here in just a few hours. Instead, I say, “I’ll mail your last check to you.”
The kid runs out like his ass is on fire, which is a thought that should make me laugh, considering the current situation. But it’s not funny, especially because I can’t shake the feeling that this is somewhat my fault for not getting the toaster fixed when the automatic pop-up button stopped working.
I lean over the island in the middle of the kitchen until my forehead touches the cold marble top.
“I release worry and embrace calm,” I repeat to myself half-aloud, hoping it’ll make the feeling a reality.
“Does that actually work?”
I lift my head to find a guy leaning against the doorframe. It takes a second for my brain to engage. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right out to take your order.”
He smiles and points at the still-smoking open oven. “Brownies, right?”
“They were, yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Triple chocolate.”
He releases a moan that goes straight to my dick, and I notice the way his sharp jawline leads to a long, slim, perfectly biteable neck. I trap my lips between my teeth. The guy is shorter than me—at six foot five, most people are—but he’s not short. He’s all long legs and arms, guarded blue eyes, and an easy smile.
Down, boy. We’re in a crisis situation here and your dry spell is not a priority right now. Especially when directed at perfect strangers who walk into our kitchen uninvited.
“They’re my favorite,” the guy says.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any to sell right now.”
“Not yet,” he says, crossing his arms.
“I’m sorry, I can’t…”
“You keep apologizing. Why don’t you go handle the line of undercaffeinated customers while I deal with your brownie situation?”
I crane my neck to look over him into my coffee shop and, fuck, the line is out the door. How am I going to have time to work on the order without any help?
Wait.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I can’t make a drink to save my life, so you better go deal with the hangry crowd.”
“No, the other thing.”
He walks farther into my kitchen and picks up the Bittersweet apron hanging by the door. “I’m going to bake you the best brownies you’ve ever had in your life.”
I want to argue, but with the line of people needing my attention, I can’t afford to waste more time. As they say, beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point, I’m definitely the beggar in the situation.
“Hell, what’s the worst that can happen?” I mutter, grabbing two slices of bread and putting them in the toaster, making sure to set the timer correctly. His smile gets to me, and I can’t help returning it.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I go around the worktable toward the front.
“Constantine.”
“I’m Julius.”
“Hey,” he calls as I walk past him, “there’s a kid out there. He looks like me but shorter. Can you give him a glass of water? He needs to take his meds.”
“Sure thing. Can you butter that toast and bring it out when it’s done? I have some apologizing to do outside.”
I walk out, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my gut and the possibility that my kitchen might go up in flames before the end of the day.
The crowd isn’t angry, just hungry. This is Stillwater, after all. But the line is long, and I can’t afford to lose any business.
I spot the kid straight away, so I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and put it in front of him. He’s wearing a Hall of Fame T-shirt under his heavy coat, which he still has on, even though it’s a cozy seventy degrees inside my coffee shop.
“Thanks,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
He looks to be around fourteen or fifteen and is the spitting image of Constantine. Is this his kid? My quick mental math doesn’t seem to add up. Not that it matters. I have a job to do.
New priority. Serve customers and then find out what the hell is happening right now.