Slow Brew

1. Fucking Angels

FUCKING ANGELS

You know that moment that occurs in every cheesy romance movie ever made?

The one where some unsuspecting fool is wandering down the street, going about their day, usually having a rough time of it.

They look over a shoulder or catch a glimpse of someone through a crowd, and their entire world slows down.

The traffic noise fades. Sunlight gets oddly cinematic. A band of angels starts singing in perfect harmony, and they just…know.

Their heart rate jumps, palms grow sweaty, their mouth forms a little O of surprise. A man in a suit swerves around them, muttering under his breath—who stops dead in the middle of the street like that? Fucking tourists.

But they don’t notice. Their life has just changed forever because standing a few feet away is their person. Soul mate. One true love.

Yeah. That moment.

What a load of bullshit, right?

Turns out, maybe not so much. Or at least, my body didn’t get the memo that moments like that don’t happen in real life.

Because right now, I’m frozen to the spot, eyes glued to the man wiping down counters on the other side of the glass.

My breath fogging the pane just enough the edges of the room blur, haloing the shape of him.

And boy, is it an impressive shape.

He’s big. Not in height, five eleven at most. Not in weight, either; however, the absolute machine guns he’s packing under that crisp white cotton shirt are nothing to turn your nose up at.

There is something about his energy, however.

Even through the glass between us, I can feel it in my core, stirring something up.

Although maybe that stirring has less to do with his aura and more to do with the Lord’s work that the fabric of his tee is doing where it’s stretched across the most glorious biceps I’ve ever seen.

Tanned skin, covered in intricate black tattoos, muscles flexing and straining as he wipes the counter down, making the veins in his forearm pop.

The maneuver is so delicious I want to burst through the door and run my tongue along the spot where the smallest bead of sweat has formed, forging a trail down his arm.

I hold back a giggle at the thought.

What in the world would this man think if a random twink burst into his shop and started licking him like a dog in heat for the first time? The thought’s so amusing I’m almost tempted to do it, especially if it would earn me the smallest piece of this man’s attention.

I’m relieved to discover, however, that even I have a little self-respect.

Perhaps it would be enough to unfurrow his brow.

I don’t know who this man is—other than my future husband, of course—but damn does the dude look stressed.

Even from out here, I can see it in the hunch of his shoulders and the clench of his jaw.

He’s scrubbing at the same spot on the table like removing that one mark will erase all the world’s problems.

It’s weirdly hypnotic, watching him get lost in something so simple.

The way his hand moves, steady and deliberate, does unholy things to my imagination.

I’d offer suggestions on better uses for that precision, better places he could rub than countertops, but he’s giving off strong straight-guy energy.

Still…if he ever decided to experiment, I’d volunteer as tribute—purely for science, of course. I’ve always been charitable like that.

He’s older. The gray starting to fleck in around his temples and in the well-kept beard framing his full lips suggests he’s closer to my dad’s age than mine.

I don’t have daddy issues. I don’t. But I might be prepared to develop some, and fast, if it earned me a chance with this particular brand of eye candy just inside the—shit, where’d he go?

A door to my right swings open with a soft ding, and my head snaps toward the sound.

That’s when I see them: the most insanely green irises I’ve ever laid eyes on.

Someone needs to get Pantone on the phone, because there’s no way they know this shade exists and still picked Cloud Dancer for color of the year.

“We’re open,” he says.

Two words. That’s all it takes, and my whole nervous system short-circuits.

The deep, low baritone vibrates up from the pavement, travels through my shoes, and pools somewhere in the vicinity of my groin.

I might actually sway at the sound of it.

Full-on Jane Austen swooning. Knee-buckling, face-fanning, fetch-the-smelling-salts levels of patheticness.

He’s looking at me, brows drawn in mild confusion at the stranger in front of him who apparently has no idea how to act human.

He glances back at the door, double-checking the open sign is in place—it is.

Meaning I’ve been loitering outside an open cafe, staring through the window like I’m auditioning for a restraining order.

How long has he known I was out here? Did he see the way I kept licking my bottom lip, imagining it was his instead? Ugh. Could I be any more embarrassing?

Turns out I can.

All it takes is for him to say, “Everything okay?” and my mouth completely betrays me.

What I mean to answer with is “Yeah, zoned out.” Or literally anything other than the half-garbled, half-lustful noises that actually escape. Jesus. Will the ground please open and swallow me up, or do I need to file a formal request?

I glance down the sidewalk, feet already pivoting away from the shop, ready to bolt from the man I’ve spent the last several minutes eye-fucking through the window.

But, before I can put the thought into motion, a warm hand presses into the small of my back.

The next thing I know, I’m inside the little cafe, the bell dinging with finality as the door clicks shut behind me.

“Sit,” he says.

I do.

“You look like you need a strong cup of coffee.”

All I can manage is a stilted nod.

He disappears for a moment, and honestly, thank God. If I’d been in his presence for another second, the last functioning parts of my brain might have fully disintegrated. His absence, even if just for a heartbeat, is enough for my scattered neurons to reboot and start noticing the room around me.

It’s quaint. Oddly pink and floral. A stark contrast to the burly man who’s running it.

The chairs are all mismatched, each paired with a table slightly different in shape and height, yet it all somehow works.

On each is a tiny vase, empty but hopeful—not dissimilar to myself, really—with a folded menu leaning against it.

Display cases of pastries cover the back wall, their buttery scents mingling with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee.

Chalkboards are scrawled with fancy script.

To my right, a tiny bookcase is overflowing with paperbacks and magazines, each dog-eared and well-loved.

To my left hangs an abstract print of what appears to be someone’s half-eaten lunch.

It’s cute. Charming, even. The exact sort of place you’d expect to find all the locals at in a sleepy little town like this. However, other than my future spouse and me, it’s surprisingly empty for ten o’clock on a Tuesday.

The light thud of a cup being set on the table in front of me breaks me from my stupor, and I look down at it. It’s light pink and ceramic—not one of those paper travel mugs that are filling up landfills these days. In fact, I can see a stack of them sitting on the counter near the coffee machine.

Yet, he chose this one.

Something in my belly flutters at the sweetness of the gesture, even though it’s one he likely didn’t mean to make. It almost feels as if he’s saying, I don’t think you’re disposable… I mentally add delusional to my ever-growing list of qualities and shake my head.

“Do you want something to eat?”

That voice. It gets even better every time I hear it, and it snaps my attention back to those enchanting green eyes. This time, I use actual words. Hashtag growth.

“Oh? No?”

Look, I didn’t say they were impressive words. At least I’ve graduated from whatever the fuck came out of my mouth earlier.

“Thank you,” I tag on, too late.

I expect him to turn and go back to his work, but the chair opposite me scrapes across the floor, and he sits, tattooed fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop, lips pursed as if he’s trying to decide what to make of me.

It’s not an unusual reaction. Most people don’t know what to do with me.

Especially not in one-stoplight southern towns like this.

His gaze isn’t judgmental in the way I’d been bracing for, however, nor does it feel like he’s assessing me the way someone might an exotic animal in a zoo. It’s steady. Patient, almost. And I find I like it. Perhaps, a little too much.

“Drink,” he says.

I do.

The coffee is bitter. Shockingly bitter.

I’m not sure what about my appearance made him think I take my caffeine with no cream, no sugar, but he’s wildly off base.

Still, I’m powerless to do anything other than gulp it down.

My throat protests, the liquid scalding me with every swallow.

I keep going anyway, letting the heat spread through my chest and stomach, waking me back up.

It takes less than five minutes to choke down the entire cup. Five minutes where he sits opposite me in unwavering silence, eyes quietly watching.

I set the empty mug down, and he drags it slowly back across the table, cradling it in his large hands.

I force myself to stay in my seat instead of following the cup and crawling into his lap like a cat.

The regret of downing it is instant because now he’s standing back up and walking quietly away, leaving me alone.

I glance back at my hands—nails covered in chipped black paint, cuticles bitten raw with anxiety from the drive. I’m not exactly presentable in my current unwashed state. Probably not his dream customer either, but I’m the only one he’s got.