Chapter 1 #2
That’s rich, coming from a man who looks like he stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog.
I roll my eyes. “You’re not funny.”
He’s leaning against my work table, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, a smug, knowing smile sitting on his stupidly handsome face.
“Look at you, getting all hot and bothered. I had no idea that was your type.”
“Can you not say things like that?” I whisper-shout. “I’m actively trying not to die of humiliation.”
Cole lifts one shoulder. “Just calling it like I see it.”
“Well, stop seeing it,” I snap, shoving the boxed chocolate croissant at him harder than necessary.
“Ohhh. She’s feisty tonight.” He laughs and tilts his head. “Poetry Pete got you all worked up?”
“Do you want the croissant or not?”
“I want the croissant,” he says sweetly. “And the drink with the little leaf design—”
“No drink. We’re closed, and the machines have already been cleaned.”
“Aw. No special exceptions for the landlord?”
“No special exceptions ever.”
Instead of hitting me with a comeback, he digs into the box as if someone might snatch it from him and aggressively bites into the croissant.
Technically, we ran out of croissants before lunch, but since Cole is in the habit of coming in and getting one, I usually set one aside for him.
“Fuck, doll.” He moans. “I don’t know what you put in these, but I think it’s addicting.”
“Sugar is more addictive than heroin, so yes, they are addictive.”
He shakes his head, laughing around a mouthful before swallowing. “Next time just say, ‘You’re welcome, Cole. Anything for you, Cole. I make them just for you, Cole.’“
I snort. “Those words will never come out of my mouth. I’ll leave that to your string of flavors. What’s this month’s name? Ashley? Madison?”
“Kennedy,” he corrects. “Didn’t realize you were paying attention. You want next month? Got an open slot for you.” He wiggles his brows.
I make a gagging noise. “Ew. No thank you.”
He wipes some of the chocolate that’s gathered at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, unbothered by my rejection. “Speaking of flavors…you seeing that guy?”
“What? No. He’s a professor at Prentiss who needed a space for his summer poetry workshop.”
“Your googly eyes said otherwise.”
I blow out a breath, puffing the loose strands of hair away from my face. “I might have a teensy, tiny little thing for him.”
“Isn’t that guy a little old for you?”
My eyes pinch, forehead creasing. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I think he’s only slightly older than you.”
His lips lift in a smirk. “Didn’t realize you were comparing us.”
My face deadpans. “I’m not. Pretty sure he’s thirty-eight.”
I’m not pretty sure. I’m sure. I had to look at his license when I was filling out the contract for reserving the shop. I also might have glanced at his address, not that I’m creepy or desperate enough to do anything with that knowledge. Though he does live awfully close to my coffee shop.
“Yeah.” He nods. “That’s kind of old for you.”
My head rears back. “I’m twenty-three, so no, he’s not too old.”
Cole blows out a whistle. “Shit, never mind. You’re practically an old maid.”
I can’t help but laugh. This is usually how our conversations go. He annoys me, and then says something to cut through my annoyance just enough to get me to laugh.
“I’m gonna go back out there. Poor Sadie is probably waiting for me so she can clock out.”
He nods once, an odd expression on his face. “Be careful with grandpa out there. Sometimes those intellectual types are just better at hiding how full of shit they are.”
My lips purse. I’m not sure when everyone decided I’m someone who constantly needs advice.
I’m a grown woman and a business owner. God forbid I prefer men with fully developed frontal lobes.
I can’t help that guys my age are objectively terrible, and I’ve always been drawn to men a little older than me.
Maybe it’s no coincidence that I’ve also always had a habit of wanting things that are just out of reach.
It’s easier to dream about the impossible than risk failing at something real.
“You sound like my brothers. They’re always trying to protect me and treat me like I’m still a little girl.”
His gaze holds mine. “I’m nothing like your brothers. I’m offended that you think so. I’m not trying to protect you. I’m just telling you how it is. Do what you want with that.”
“Well, you can save the advice. Someone like him would never be interested in me.”
Something in his expression tightens. “Is he interested in men? Married? In a serious relationship?”
I shake my head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then he’s interested.”
My eyes sharpen. “Not every man’s type is vagina. Some men want a little something more.”
“Yeah, we like tits too.” He raises a brow before flicking his eyes briefly to the spot where my cleavage would be if my shirt showed any, as if to prove his point.
Instinctively, my arms cross over my chest.
“He’s a gentleman. He’s well-read. He’s in touch with his emotions. He’s not like that.”
Though I’ve barely had a conversation with Wesley, all his published work is readily available online. A man who writes poetry like he does is not some heathen who adds notches to his belt. He’s different.
Cole encroaches on me, breaking past my bubble of comfort and infiltrating my senses with his cologne.
I might like it if the scent were wafting off someone else.
It’s warm and spicy, and just sweet enough to leave me feeling dizzy.
He’s so close I catch whiffs of chocolate on his breath, the hints of tangy-sour clinging to his skin—the unmistakable scent of winemaking.
“You’re not seriously going to fall for that shit, are you?” he says. “I don’t care how many tailored sweaters the guy owns. Deep down, he’s a dog like the rest of us. Don’t let the pedigree fool you.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” a male voice says, and both Cole and I whip our heads around as I jump back a step.
It’s Professor Hampton.
“You’re not interrupting anything,” I say brightly. Too brightly. “Cole was just leaving.”
I nudge my head at Cole so he’ll beat it, and either he can’t read my obvious signal or he’s ignoring it.
Cole sets down the box of croissants and claps the crumbs off his hands before extending one out to Wesley. “Cole Benton. I own the building.”
“Wesley Hampton,” he says as he shakes Cole’s hand before turning back to me. “We’re having some issues with the speakers and I was hoping you might have the magic touch.”
“Yeah.” The word comes out as a choke-laugh-breath I didn’t even know a human could make.
My skin prickles, heat sweeping over me in a humiliating wave.
If my heart were beating any harder, it would launch straight out of my throat.
Cole shoots me a look like he heard the unhinged sound I just made and is two seconds from laughing.
Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I be cool and sexy and capable of basic human functioning around this man? He probably thinks I have some kind of condition.
“I’ll be right out,” I manage to squeak out.
Wesley offers a gentle smile. “If you’re busy, it can wait.”
“No! No-no-no-no.” That was way too many nos—at least six. Maybe seven. I lose count. “I mean yes. I mean—I can do it. The speakers.”
Wesley’s brows pinch together, his eyes bouncing between me and Cole. “Uh…great. They’re crackling at the connection. Probably nothing major.”
“Right. Likely a loose cock.” I gasp, my skin turning hot with embarrassment, heart dropping to my stomach. “I mean, cord. Likely a loose cord.”
Cole makes a huffing sound behind me. I ignore him like my life depends on it.
Wesley lifts a hand to his mouth, like he’s trying to hide a smile—or a laugh. “Okay…then. I’ll see you out there.”
“Yep!” I salute him. Actually salute him.
Kill me now.
The second the door swings shut, Cole releases the most obnoxious laugh I’ve ever heard.
“Holy shit.”
I press both hands to my flaming cheeks. “Don’t.”
“That was—wow.” He gestures at the entire room like there’s an audience. “I mean…wow. If secondhand embarrassment could kill…well, I’m sure you can guess the rest.”
“Stop.”
“No, because what was that?” He mutters, “Loose cock,” under his breath.
“You can leave,” I grit, clutching onto the counter for stability.
He doesn’t budge. “And you saluted him.”
“I know.”
“Like he was deploying.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I want to die.”
“No dying.” He rubs his nose, trying to tamp down his laugh. “Who would make me chocolate croissants?”
“Now I have to go back out there and not make it worse.”
“Does it get worse than loose cock?”
“When it comes to me, yes. Absolutely, yes.”
Cole at least has the decency to look at me like he genuinely feels bad for me. Even if he is still trying not to laugh in my face.
It’s truly a selective disease. I have no trouble engaging with most people, but the second that buzz of attraction starts to creep up beneath my skin and bloom in my chest, I’m done for. I’m a tongue-tied freak.
“Well, if you were worried about him forgetting you, he’s definitely not going to forget you now.”
That’s unfortunate. Because I think I’d prefer to be forgotten completely than be remembered for whatever mortifying display that was.