Blush Crush (Red Mountain #4)

Chapter 1

Ariana

LOOSE CORD

Ihave a firm rule against listening to men with microphones—but like most rules, there are exceptions.

Tonight’s exception walks up to the mic, taps it lightly, and then looks up and smiles to the small crowd.

My fingers curl around the paperback tucked inside my apron as his gaze lands on me, and I drop my eyes, heat rushing to my face.

He’s very handsome. So handsome I was an embarrassing, blubbering mess when he approached me last week about using my coffee shop for his poetry club’s monthly slam night.

Professor Wesley Hampton is the faculty advisor for the poetry club at Prentiss University, located in Badger Canyon, about thirty minutes south of my hometown of Red Mountain. And from the moment he walked through the door, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

“Thank you all for being here,” he says into the mic, his voice gravelly enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.

A murmur of appreciation ripples through the audience.

“And let’s give a round of applause to our gracious host, Ariana, for allowing us to take over Novel Teas and Coffee.” He gestures to me.

My face goes from flushed to fire in a flash, but I can’t look away and hide like every instinct in my body is screaming at me to do.

Instead I lift an awkward hand in acknowledgment and slowly start to back into the shadows, hoping they’ll swallow me whole.

The crowd’s focus quickly returns to the hot professor, and I release a long breath in relief.

“You do not handle attention well, do you?” Sadie, my barista, comments under her breath.

I shake my head, still trying to breathe like a normal person.

“Layla has always been better at it,” I say finally, as if that explains it all.

Layla is my twin, and for as much as we’re alike, there’s still plenty that makes us different.

She’s taller and thinner than I am, has green eyes instead of blue, dyes her hair blonde while I prefer our natural brunette, and where she’s always thrived at being the center of attention, I’ve wilted like a flower under a heat lamp.

If she were in my shoes right now, she’d probably be going around introducing herself, getting to know everyone in the poetry club. She’d probably even slip her number into Professor Hottie’s front pocket with total confidence, leaving him instantly enamored.

But that’s not me. I prefer hanging back and staying unnoticed. Which is also why my personal life isn’t exactly flourishing.

“I can’t wait for college,” Sadie whispers, eyes on Wesley.

I snort quietly. “Most of your professors won’t look like that.”

She pouts, nudging my shoulder playfully. “Just let me dream.”

Out on the small, makeshift stage, Professor Hampton steps aside as the first poet approaches. The room falls into a hush, and a student dims the lights, leaving only the single bulb above the stage.

I busy myself wiping down an already clean section of the counter while Sadie pulls the tip jar and starts closing out her tips for the night.

The shop is shut down for the evening, so once Sadie clocks out, it’ll just be me running the show.

Which is perfectly fine—I’m the owner, I can handle it—but having Sadie around is the only thing keeping me distracted enough to not blatantly stare at the professor.

The bell above the door jingles, pulling my head around just as it swings open on a gust of air—and in walks the overly smug man who recently purchased the building.

Cole Benton strides in without hesitation, glancing at the little Closed for Private Event sign as he passes it with no regard.

“Evening, ladies,” he calls, cheerfully ignoring the poet onstage, the dimmed lights, the entire room of silently focused people.

“Cole,” I hiss, rushing out from behind the counter like that could stop him. “We’re closed.”

He gives me a grin that could probably get away with murder. Well, maybe not murder, but certainly something that blurs the lines of legality. “Yeah, but I’m not ‘regular people.’ I’m a loyal customer. A VIP. Practically a shareholder.”

“You own the building. That doesn’t mean you have free rein to the businesses within it,” I whisper back, glaring.

He leans an elbow on the counter anyway. “Great, so I’ll just take a chocolate croissant and whatever the daily special is. Make it pretty with one of those designs you do with the milk and shit.”

I blink at him. “Cole. There is a literal poetry slam happening.”

He glances over his shoulder as if just noticing the crowd for the first time. A student is performing a quiet, emotional piece.

Cole nods, completely unfazed. “Cute. Glad you’re letting the kids do their thing.” He flicks his chin at the stage, eyes narrowing on the microphone as a buzz rattles the speakers. “That sounds like shit. You might want to tighten the cock on the stand before it falls over.”

I stare at him, because surely I misheard that. “The what?”

“The cock. The little metal knob that holds the microphone in place.” He shrugs. “That’s what it’s called. And when it’s loose, it causes the microphone to vibrate against the stand.”

“Why would it be called that?” I ask in a low voice, somewhat baffled I’m indulging him with this explanation.

“Because men name everything after themselves.”

That sounds about right.

He smiles, proud of his useless tidbit, and entirely too amused with himself. I want to throw something at him.

Instead I fold my arms. “We. Are. Closed.”

“Yeah, but I’m hungry.” His grin widens. “And thirsty. And incredibly charming. How can you deny me?”

I open my mouth to argue again when a noise catches my attention, and my eyes connect with Wesley’s from across the room. There’s a small smile on his lips as he stares at me before returning his focus to the stage. I bite my lip to keep my smile from overtaking my face.

“Ohhh,” Cole murmurs, as if he’s realizing something. “So that’s what this is.”

“What?” I whisper sharply.

He tilts his head toward the stage where Wesley stands just beyond the light, listening to the poet with a thoughtful expression.

“You’re hot for Mr. Rogers.” Cole looks back at me, blue eyes shimmering. “Might want to wipe the corner of your mouth.” He leans in closer as if to tell me a secret. “Think you’ve got a little drool.”

My entire soul leaves my body, a shiver unfurling down my spine from the warmth of his breath against my skin.

“I—what—no, I don’t.” My hand flies to my mouth anyway, horrified.

Behind me, Sadie snickers into her stack of tip money.

Cole straightens, still smiling that shit-eating grin of his. “Relax, doll. He’s a good-looking dude. You’re allowed to look.”

“I wasn’t looking,” I whisper fiercely, even though my face is blazing hot.

Cole lifts his eyebrows with a yeah right expression.

A couple of people in the audience turn, annoyed, and I frantically shoo him toward the back hallway.

“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll get your stupid croissant. But you have to wait in the back.”

“Ooo, private service.” He winks. “Didn’t know we were at that level.”

“We are not at any level.”

He grins, stepping away toward the back. “I beg to differ.”

I swear, this man makes it his mission to get on my last nerve every chance he gets.

Sadie shakes her head, still sorting her tip money. “You okay?”

No. Absolutely not. My heart is somersaulting in my chest. Not only did Cole catch me staring at Wesley, but he just had to call me out on it.

“Perfect,” I say, though my voice cracks like a teenage boy.

She leans closer, briefly glancing toward Cole’s retreating back. “Did he just call you doll?”

I grimace. “Yeah.”

“Is that a new thing?”

I roll my eyes, mortified, and weirdly warm all at once. “He just started doing it one day. No idea why.”

“And you let him?”

“I didn’t say I like it,” I mutter. “But knowing Cole, he could be calling me something a lot worse.”

Sadie shakes her head. “The bar is low with that one.”

There’s no point in over-analyzing anything when it comes to Cole. The man has the emotional depth of a puddle—unlike a certain professor.

When I finally allow myself to sneak another glance toward the stage, Wesley is already looking at me.

My stomach swoops.

His brows lift—an unspoken everything okay over there?—and embarrassment floods me so fast I’m surprised I don’t actually melt on the spot. This is not how I wanted to get his attention, by making a fool of myself and causing a scene.

I snap my gaze away and practically dive behind the counter, pretending the pastry case is suddenly the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

Sadie smirks. “Subtle.”

“Don’t,” I warn, grabbing the tongs. “Please. No commentary.”

She hums to herself like she’s considering it, then flashes a look toward the back hallway where Cole disappeared. “You’re really going to serve him?”

“He’ll be insufferable if I don’t.”

“He’s insufferable anyway.”

This is also true.

I’ve always known who Cole is—our families have been in the wine business longer than either one of us has been alive, and are basically sworn competitors—but it wasn’t until he bought the building that we actually started interacting beyond him just being a customer.

Then he opened a Benton Winery tasting room right next door.

Now he comes in nearly every day, orders whatever the special is plus a chocolate croissant, and somehow, in just a few months, he’s managed to become a massive thorn in my side.

He’s more than easy on the eyes and effortlessly charming, but he’s also painfully aware of it, which means whatever initial attraction I had vanished fast. Cocky is not my type.

Honestly, it’s almost funny now, remembering how I used to trip over my words around him. Glad I got over that quickly.

With the poet still reading, I slip into the back as quietly as possible, trying not to make any unnecessary noise.

Until Cole shatters the silence and speaks.

“Took you long enough. Thought maybe you passed out from all the potent masculinity coming off the dude’s elbow patches.”