The Art of Marrying Your Enemy (The Richmond Brothers #2)

1. Daisy

1

DAISY

“ H i. Hope your day’s been terrible. What can I get for you?”

“When are you going to upgrade to shilling fries?”

“I hope that’s not your new pickup line. My vag just dried up and poofed into a cloud of dust.” I sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon in his direction.

A scowl settled over the handsome face.

“My usual. Now.”

I clicked my pen.

“You don’t want to go off menu today?” I pointed at the chalkboard. “Honey Bee latte with cinnamon and rose hip syrup, house made, and if you don’t like it, you can bring it back and—”

“Coleman, get me my coffee. Now.”

“One crappucino coming right up.” I saluted him. “Ten shots of espresso run through a drip coffee maker with extra-dark roast. Why he doesn’t just grind up caffeine pills and snort them off his credit card, we will never know.”

As three of our six espresso machines forced water through imported roasted beans—which would soon be ruined in the drip coffee maker—I fiddled with my pen.

Aaron Richmond watched, his mouth twitching into a sneer.

Do not look at him.

Don’t give him the satisfaction.

The first round of espresso shots finished, and I dumped the results into a paper cup. The machine clanked as I loaded the next filter baskets.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I became a barista. It’s an affront to nature.” I prepped the drip coffee maker for its torture session.

“You’re not a barista.” Aaron’s deep voice sounded behind me. “You don’t have a certification. You’re just a minimum-wage food service worker.”

I slammed the tamped filter basket into the slot and pulled the lever. The machine hissed. Then I shifted my weight on one hip and clicked the pen at him.

“Funny. All your six-figure employees like the cute coffee-cart girl. I make mad tips. It’s all about the compliments. For example…” I gestured to him. “Boring suit! Is that an ever-so-slightly darker shade of charcoal than your usual mediocre gray? Really brings out that subtle tinge of red in your hair.”

Aaron’s lips thinned.

I clicked the pen again.

“Men love it when I’m nice to them. Maybe the next time you see me, I’ll be on the Van de Berg health insurance policy.” I wiggled my left hand at him.

“I’ll fire anyone you start dating.”

“Even if they’re a high-paying client?” My eyebrow rose.

Steam hissed from the espresso machine as Aaron slowly turned to the men sitting apprehensively at the nearby café tables.

Predator at the watering hole.

The grizzled men in Armani suits, that may or may not be mafia-adjacent, huddled together like penguins, wary. Watching.

Did you ever wonder what bad men had nightmares about?

Him.

Mafia boss? Motorcycle gangbanger? Ex-Navy SEAL hell-bent on revenge? Please. No one inspired more fear than the insurance broker.

A business, whether it operated in the gray zone or not, didn’t function in the United States of America without insurance, and if you wanted to insure something bigger than a forklift, Van de Berg Insurance was it. If Aaron declared you a liability, you had no more insurance and no more business.

No midnight assassination order was as terrifying as an email from Aaron Richmond sent at 11:33 a.m. on a Tuesday:

We regret to inform you that Van de Berg Insurance has denied your claim at this time. No appeal to this decision will be possible…

With the stroke of his signature, he could topple an entire industry.

He was lawful evil.

“Men like that want real women,” he said derisively, turning back to me.

My chest tightened. It was like we were teenagers again, and he was slowly winding up to humiliate me in front of an audience.

His eyes flicked down then back up. Bored. Cruel.

“Not inexperienced little girls.”

Before I could do something that got me arrested or, worse, fired, heels clicked on the marble floor of the Van de Berg Insurance tower lobby.

A young intern skipped up to the coffee counter, took one look at Aaron, and immediately burst into heaving sobs.

“Was the nasty man mean to you?” I cooed, hurrying around the counter and wrapping my arms around her. “Aaron, go away. You’re scaring the poor girl.”

His hands were scythes by his side.

I ignored him to comfort the college intern, drying her tears with the corner of my plaid overshirt.

“I know just what you need.” I led her to the coffee bar. “You need a pumpkin spice latte.”

“It’s not”— sniffle —“September yet”— sob .

“Don’t worry! I have a secret stash.” I winked.

Aaron protested as, instead of finishing his disgusting coffee order, I started on the PSL.

“I was here first,” he complained.

“Suck it up, buttercup. There is a crying, underpaid intern yearning for a PSL.” The familiar smells of nutmeg and cinnamon filled the lobby.

Aaron made a disgusted noise.

I handed the intern a cookie.

“I have a meeting, Coleman.”

I ignored him.

“I wish it was fall,” the intern said with a sigh.

“Same, girl. Same. Fall is so much better than summer.” My stomach churned, reminding me that the man in front of me had ruined summer forever.

“Coleman, I am late for my—”

I foamed the milk, drowning out the sound of his protests. After mixing the drink, I sprinkled nutmeg in a leaf pattern over the fluffy white foam.

The intern sipped it gratefully.

“What do I owe you?” She reached for her purse.

“On the house!”

“No wonder you’ve been a low-level coffee girl for three years,” Aaron sneered. “I wouldn’t let you manage this cart, either, if you’re giving away free food.”

“It’s good karma to do nice things for people, Aaron,” I said as I dumped the last of his shots into the cup then poured the whole mess into the drip coffee maker.

“Just the sentiment I’d expect from someone who thinks getting a PhD in English is a good idea,” he added.

“Says the person who terrorizes young girls.”

His scowl deepened.

“But that’s in your blood, isn’t it, Mr. Richmond ?”

Those words were dangerously close to the ones I’d screamed at him in the hallowed halls of Riverside Prep that had kicked off WW3 and left my life a smoldering ruin.

We stared at each other—me up at him. Him down at me from that impossible height, his body taut, the tendons in his neck wound so tight I could slice my hands on them if I trailed my fingers along his neck…

Once and never again.

Unless it was to strangle him until he begged for mercy.

“You really want to do this right now, Coleman?” His words were a soft snarl.

My nostrils flared.

I just couldn’t let things go. It was my toxic trait.

The coffee maker beeped, and I turned my back to him.

Behind me, he made a triumphant noise.

My fists balled.

It wasn’t a surrender. I had to do my job.

I held the piping-hot cup while Aaron stared at the iPad screen, his black metallic credit card in hand.

“I didn’t buy a baked good or a pumpkin drink.”

“It’s your fault she needed it.” I reached over and tapped the screen for a fifty percent tip.

Aaron swore.

“You traumatized that dear, sweet girl.”

“You—”

I slid the steaming cup across the counter.

“Enjoy your caffeine sludge.”