Chapter 3
ALINA
Narrowing my eyes at the phone screen, I reread the text. Why does the recipe make it look so easy? Heat the water until it boils, then leave it be for thirty seconds. Pour it into the coffee, following circular motions. Warm the milk, then use a frother for twenty seconds.
I curl my nose at the latte in front of me.
No matter what I do, it doesn’t taste the same.
This is like a poor version of Marie’s coffee.
Maybe there’s a secret step they weren’t comfortable sharing with me?
No, I don’t think so. The coffee is the same since I bought it in their store, and the owners were always so nice to me.
I don’t think they would lie when I asked for the recipe to drink it while I was away.
Shooting a look over my shoulder, I search for Gen in the ocean.
There she is. A small head swimming back and forth.
A chuckle escapes me. Gen could have been a mermaid, with her long, blond hair and her skinny body.
She’s a talented singer, too. Yeah, totally a mermaid.
I have yet to meet someone who enjoys swimming as much as she does.
Back to the latte. Well. I’ll have to drink this one while I brew another. What a sacrifice.
I put the kettle on the stove again and give it a minute. As soon as the water boils, I turn it off and move to the pan I’ve been using for the milk. As I reach for it, a warm gust of air reaches my ear.
“What are you doing here by yourself?” A thick voice asks, and the shiver it shoots down my spine is so vicious, so strong my arm shakes and my hand slams against the hot metal of the kettle.
Pain shoots up my fingers, drowning out the shiver, and I pull my arm back with a hiss. Adrenaline pours into my veins with the sudden onset of pain, and I bring my hand up to study the angry red taking the side of it.
“Oh, shit,” the male voice calls out, then fingers curl around my wrist and Mr. Delaporte manhandles me to the sink.
“Cold water. Quick.” He turns the faucet on and sticks my hand under the water, and even as the cold settles on the burning skin, the way his fingers singe into my wrist makes me hyper-aware.
My heart chugs inside my chest, and I swallow several times, watching the way his fingers go around my wrist. They’re so big. Such big, meaty fingers. Heat spreads across my face, down my neck.
“You in pain?” he asks. I shake my head because I can’t find my voice. “Good. I’m sorry I surprised you.” And though his words are steady, his voice comes out... Heated. Strangled even. I don’t know why.
I look up in confusion, trying to see through him.
He’s so very tall. That knot in my stomach grows tight.
He’s also so handsome. None of the boys back in college look anything like him.
He’s not blond like Gen, but dark-haired, with eyes a vivid gray.
And his skin is not pale like mine, but bronze, like a statue, like something out of mythology stories.
His shoulders are so broad he could be confused with a warrior of old.
The knot tightens yet again. I look down at his bicep, curling and uncurling as he moves my hand up and down the water. There’s something almost erotic about the way he controls me. About how he moves me to his will.
Our gazes lock. His eyes burn with something I can’t comprehend. I look away, shame building up.
What am I thinking? He’s just trying to be civil. There’s no heat, no interest, nothing. He’s just some rich, older man who’s about to close my favorite coffee shop so he can become richer.
“What were you doing?” he asks, and this time his voice comes out... Softer? I don’t think that word can be used to define anything about him. But his voice sounds less angled, less sharp.
I clear my throat. He’s being civil and trying to take care of my hand, so the least he deserves is some politeness. “Coffee. My favorite coffee shop sent me the recipe so I could emulate it while I was away.”
“That was nice of them.”
“It was. They’re very nice.”
“And what was that? Latte?”
I nod. “With hazelnut milk.”
My fingers start growing numb with the cold of the water, so I pull them back.
Mr. Delaporte lets me, though his fingertips still touch my pulse.
We stand there, watching the way his fingers brush the inside of my arm.
His skin is calloused, and he’s not even a blue-collar worker. Why does that make him even hotter?
A sharp jolt of electricity runs through me. Goosebumps race up my arms, starting from the place he still touches me. I watch the hairs on his arm stand on end, too. Is he feeling this? Why?
He pulls back and turns the faucet off. We stand in silence for several heartbeats, his gaze keeping me frozen to the spot.
There is only the sound of the ocean in the background.
The sunlight spills in through the windows, but I can only look at him.
At how his sharp jaw creates an angled shadow on his neck and how corded the muscles of his neck and shoulders are.
“I didn’t know you wanted to be a barista,” he says, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.
“I don’t. Computer scientist through and through.” And I chuckle. “I mean, I love it. There’s nothing else in the world I would like to do.”
Mr. Delaporte turns to the milk pan and bubbling water in the kettle, and he makes some coffee himself. I can’t help but watch, mesmerized, the way his back muscles move under his shirt and how his huge fingers make everything look like it was made for a dollhouse.
“Tell me more about your degree. Why do you like it so much?” he asks, and it’s so simple and so open, I have no alternative. There’s no way around it.
Sitting down on the stool next to me, I pick up my latte and tell him.
He’s a good listener, and he keeps asking more questions.
Before I know it, we approach lunchtime, and my best friend comes back from her swim, and we’ve been chatting for hours and hours.
Gen joins us, and it’s so easy to talk to them.
So easy to talk to him. I keep sliding glances in his direction, daydreaming about the forbidden. About the one thing I shouldn’t.
Does he think the same? Is he feeling the same?
Do I make him as awestruck as he makes me?