Fake It Till You Love Me

Chapter 1

one

WILLOW

The espresso machine screamed at me with personal grudge energy.

I slammed the portafilter against the knock box harder than necessary, sending spent grounds flying.

Three years of operating this temperamental beast, and it still picked the worst moments to throw tantrums. The morning rush pressed against the counter in a wall of impatient bodies and caffeine desperation.

"Willow, I need two cappuccinos and a flat white!" Mika called from the register, her braids swinging as she rang up another order.

"On it."

I tamped the grounds with the muscle memory I'd perfected through thousands of repetitions, locked the portafilter into place, and watched dark liquid gold stream into the cup.

The familiar ritual steadied my nerves. This—the hiss of steam, the rich aroma of fresh-ground beans, the satisfaction of crafting a perfect cup—this was mine.

The bell above the door chimed.

I didn't need to look up to know who'd walked in. My traitorous body registered his presence before my brain caught up—that stupid flutter low in my belly I'd been ignoring for almost a year.

"Your usual disaster of a rosetta," Callum said, appearing at the pickup counter with the timing that suggested he'd been watching me work. “As usual, please refrain from any of that frou-frou cream gunk.”

I finished pouring the milk, creating a foam leaf that was, objectively, flawless. "Good morning to you too, sunshine. Did you wake up extra charming today, or is this your attempt at leveling up?”

“Your customer service skills would give an HR manager an aneurysm.”

“It’s good thing we don’t have one of those, then.”

He wore another one of those suits that looked ridiculously pricey—charcoal today, with a crisp white shirt that made his silver-streaked dark hair look even more unfairly attractive. At forty, he had no business looking that good.

And it was my job to take him down a peg or two. “Your tie is crooked."

His hand moved to his collar before he caught himself. "It's not."

"Made you check, though." I slid the cappuccinos across the counter to their waiting customers, then started on his black coffee. No sugar, no cream, no joy. Just the same as the man himself.

He watched me with those unsettling gray eyes that looked like the ocean right before a storm, passing judgement, “Sounds like you’re in a mood.”

"I'm in a perfectly pleasant mood. You're the one bringing bad ju-ju in here with your sour grapes attitude.”

“Sour grapes? I do no such thing.”

I poured his coffee, resisting the urge to make it extra hot just to spite him. He'd know. He knew everything, apparently. "Here's your liquid disappointment, served with a smile."

"That's not a smile. That's a grimace disguised as customer service." He accepted the cup, fingers brushing mine for half a second. I pulled back too quickly. His mouth twitched. “I promise I don’t have germs.”

I covered my reaction with a quip. “Ha! Exactly what someone would say who is crawling with them. Has anyone told you’re exhausting?”

"Daily. Usually by you." He took a sip, and I hated that I waited for his verdict. "Adequate."

"High praise from the coffee overlord."

"Try not to poison anyone's drink."

"No promises."

He took a seat by the window with that almost-smile playing at his lips, and my gaze absolutely did not linger on his trim backside for a moment longer than necessary.

The man was a menace. An attractive, well-dressed menace who wore expensive cologne and made my pulse race in ways I refused to examine, but still… a fucking menace.

Do I have latent daddy-issues trying to surface? Oof. Best not to examine that too closely.

"You two are ridiculous," Mika whispered conspiratorially, appearing beside me with empty cups to refill. "Just sleep with him already."

"I'd rather drink expired milk,” I muttered.

"Liar." She bumped my hip with hers. "The sexual frustration is so thick I could serve it with a spoon."

"There's no sexual frustration. That’s mutual annoyance."

"Uh-huh. That's why you get that look every time he walks in."

"What look?"

"The 'I want to either kill him or climb him like a tree' look.

" Mika grinned, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. "Personally, you know the way I’d go. He’s not my type but I do have eyeballs.

He's a silver fox who wandered out of a CEO calendar who looks at you like he wants to eat you. And I do mean,” she waggled her eyebrows suggestively, “eat you.”

“Mika!” I gasped, swatting her with my counter towel. “You’re disgusting!”

Mike dissolved into giggles as I focused on steaming milk, letting the noise drown out her nonsense.

My little horn dog coworker was a pervert who also believed in fairy tales and meet-cutes and the transformative power of love.

I believed in paying rent and not making spectacularly bad decisions — not that I’ve excelled in the latter department, mind you, but I’m trying.

If I believed in New Year’s resolutions, it would’ve been something along the lines of, “Stop making colossally bad life decisions” but that’s all bullshit so I don’t bother.

However…

Mika wandered back over to me, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, “You know what the best part about an older man is…they know what they’re doing.

They know exactly where to find the magic bean.

No wandering around like a lost puppy. They go straight for the prize.

Best sex I’ve ever had was with a man twice my age, not gonna lie. ”

I whipped my head to regard her with instant curiosity. “Who did you—”

She shrugged. “Not important. Just know…I speak the truth.”

“But…he's seventeen years older than me," I said when the steam wand shut off. I shuddered. "He's a…millennial."

"So? Age is just a number."

"And I'm just a barista he enjoys bullying. It's not that deep."

"Oh, it's deep. In fact, I think he wants to be ‘deep’ in you.” Mika grabbed the finished drinks and headed to the back to grab restock.

I shot Mika an exasperated look. Like I needed more X-rated visuals like that in my head. Despite my protests to the contrary, I was guilty of some private thoughts that would make a porn star blush.

But that was private and secret like all good fantasies should be.

Mika returned with a stack of cups, sliding them into their place, still on her favorite topic. “Wake up, girl. Nobody comes to the same coffee shop every single day for a year just for simple, black coffee. Seriously, he could go to McDonalds for that, but he comes here. Get a clue, babe.”

I wanted to argue, but the morning rush swallowed us whole. For the next hour, I lived in the rhythm of pull, tamp, pour, steam. My hands knew the movements. My body understood the dance. There was a comfort in knowing what to do and how to handle the rush.

Except the register drawer stuck twice, and I'd need to call the repair guy again.

The owners were going to crash out when I gave them the bad news.

The espresso machine's pressure gauge wavered ominously.

The cooler in the back made a grinding noise that promised an expensive breakdown in the immediate future—but at least I wasn't getting that bill.

I had enough of my own. I didn't envy the coffee shop's financial problems.

I shoved the thought down and kept moving.

As quick as it began, the rush had thinned to a manageable trickle. I was wiping down the counter when the bell chimed again, and my mother's voice cut through the ambient noise.

"Willow! Sweetheart, we thought we'd surprise you."

My stomach dropped.

Mom and Dad stood just inside the door, looking out of place in their suburban casual wear—Dad in his burgundy sweater he got for Christmas, Mom in her gardening fleece. They wore matching looks of hopeful concern that made my throat tight.

How lovely. An ambush from the parentals to spice up my morning.

"Hey." I set down the rag and came around the counter to hug them both. "What are you doing here?"

"We were in the neighborhood," Mom said, which was a lie. They lived forty minutes away in the suburbs, and there was nothing in this neighborhood they needed.

Dad squeezed my shoulder as his gaze wandered, no doubt picking up on the subtle signs that the shop could use an infusion of cash. “Everything good?”

“Yep.” I gestured to the seating area. "Want coffee? On the house."

“Oh, I could use a pick-me-up,” Mom said, but she gestured to my dad to cough up some cash, which he did immediately. “One of those yummy lattes you make would be lovely.”

“Yummy latte coming up,” I said with a smile, ignoring how Callum’s attention immediately zeroed in on my parents.

Why did I feel like I was suddenly standing naked behind the counter? What was he still doing here? Usually, he was out the door by now.

I made them both lattes—Dad's with an extra shot, Mom's with vanilla the way she preferred—and joined them during the lull. Mika caught my eye from behind the counter and made an exaggerated sympathetic face.

"So," Dad said, wrapping his hands around his biodegradable cup. "How's business?"

"Good. Busy,” I chirped with too much enthusiasm to be believable. I cleared my throat, adding with a more natural tone. “Actually, really good. Can’t complain. Keeps me on my toes.”

“That chair over there looks like it’s wobbling,” my dad gestured with a frown. “Seems a bit unsafe.”

“Um, yes, actually, the owners already have a replacement chair on order,” I lied. “I think it’ll be okay until the new one arrives.”

Mom frowned as if she were unsure about my assurances but leaned forward, changing the subject.

“Darling, you’re never going to believe who we ran into at the grocery store last week —Janet Morrison.

You remember her daughter Emily? Well, according to Janet, Emily just finished her physical therapy degree. "

There it was.