Chapter 1 #2
Other than that, I wouldn’t change anything about the bakery—except maybe the tip jar with the handmade label taped to it.
Last summer, Mr. Rossi scrawled Leah’s College Fund on it.
Totally embarrassing when my fellow high school students were coming in for their morning coffee, especially my cheating ex and his new, beautiful, blonde and scrawny prom queen of a girlfriend.
Now that it’s February and they’re back at their fancy Ivy league college, I can breathe a little easier.
I like my little life. I wouldn’t change anything—except the lack of funds in my or Mr. Rossi’s bank account. And getting better medicine for Mrs. Rossi.
I’m in the back, sifting confectioner’s sugar to make a quick almond-flavored glaze for the cooling scones, when the bell jingles.
“Coming,” I call. My grip on the sugar bag slips and a white cloud puffs in my face. I grab a wet cloth and pat my face before rushing out to help the customer.
A tall man in a long, black pea coat is standing in front of the counter, his dark glossy head bent towards me as he regards the chalkboard menu. My steps slow. I have the strangest sensation, like I’m about to step over a threshold to another world. I’m holding my breath.
He raises his head, and my heart trips over itself. Strong jaw, dark olive skin, patrician nose—his face is beautiful, regal, and unapproachable all at the same time.
I take a step forward and my elbow knocks over a stack of the paper to-go cups. I fumble to catch them, but only manage to kick them, sending them rolling across the floor. Now I'm bobbing and weaving up and down, trying to catch them all.
Is it too much to hope the handsome customer didn’t notice? I look up and he’s leaning over the counter, his dark eyes on me. His beautiful lips twitch. “Need help?”
Lordy, his voice is as beautiful as his face. Smooth and deep. Delicious.
“I'm all right,” I say. Reaching up, I try to set a stack of cups back on the counter, but miss it entirely and they all fall back down. One bonks me on the head.
“Never mind,” I say, rising and taking my place behind the register. I heroically ignore the fallen cups littering the floor at my feet. “What can I get you?” I dust my hands off briskly. Calm, professional. That's the ticket.
“Un espresso,” he says in a delicious bass that sends goosebumps flowing up my arms. My very floury arms. Crap, I’m covered in flour. And powdered sugar. And some cinnamon. I surreptitiously try to brush some off, but there are still little white and reddish brown flecks dusting my hands.
“An espresso?” I repeat. “We don’t—”
The man’s gaze swings to my right, and I turn to follow it to the antique espresso maker sitting on the counter. The machine gleams, silently judging my lack of barista skills. “Oh, right.”
The bell rings again and three more guys walk in. They’re all wearing dark coats and have the same dark and gorgeous Mediterranean features as the first guy. Are Dolce and Gabbana doing a photoshoot outside?
The four guys look so similar, if they’re not brothers, they’ve got to be cousins. The first one at the counter staring at me is the most beautiful of them all. And he’s still got his whole attention on me, looking like he’s hungry and I’m a sugar-dusted donut.
My blush starts at my nipples and starts rolling slowly up my cleavage—which is on display.
Thanks to the heat of the ovens, I peeled off my sweater and am only wearing a white camisole.
And tomorrow’s laundry day, so I’m down to my last, most ridiculous lacy bra.
Pink, of course. Luckily, the cami is thick enough to conceal everything, but the bright straps are showcased on my shoulders.
The blast of cold air that tailed the customers makes my nipples spring to points.
“Right,” I say. “I'll just get you that, then…” I turn and knock another cup off the counter. This one I catch and clutch carefully as I walk over to my new nemesis. My expression, mirrored in the polished chrome, is full of dismay. I hope the customer can't see my reflection.
The three domes on top are like miniature replicas of St. Peter’s basilica. Ornate and just as intimidating. One dome is labeled: Cappuccino.
“A cappuccino?” I ask, reaching for the level hopefully.
“No, principessa. Only an espresso.”
Rats.
Between customers this morning, Mr. Rossi and I figured out how to turn this thing on. I push a button and jump as steam hisses out. Maybe there is a steamer attachment—good for steaming milk.
“Whoops,” I say. “Not that one.” I pull out the metal thingy, add the freshly ground beans, and tamp them down. I wedge the metal thingy holding the espresso grounds back in and push a different button. A green light comes on.
Then the entire machine starts shaking like it's going to blast off of the countertop. It's the espresso-making cousin of Howl's Moving Castle.
“We just got this espresso maker,” I shout cheerfully over my shoulder. I keep my face calm, as if everything is normal. Fake it till you make it.
The men by the door smirk at each other, but the man at the front still hasn't taken his eyes off me. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck when I turn.
“Come on, come on,” I murmur to the machine. “You can do it.”
Just when I've given up hope, there's a hiss, and a squirt of unappetizing brown liquid into the paper cup. It smells sort of coffee-ish.
Thanking the coffee shop gods for their continued good favor, I take the paper cup back to the customer and set it in front of him. The four men in front of the counter regard it.
“I’m more of a tea person, really,” I say to fill the silence. My blush has reached the crests of my cheeks and is in the process of unfurling like twin red flags in front of a bull.
The beautiful man says nothing but picks up the cup and, with more bravery than I've seen in a long time, tosses it back. The room is still as he slowly sets the cup back down.
“It's good,” he lies through his teeth.
I wrinkle my nose at him.
“Looks like brown water,” one of his friends jokes, and something in the man’s dark brown eyes goes icy. From nice and amiable to full of cold anger. His jaw clenches. “Out,” he orders without turning.
To my surprise, the men on either side of him—his brothers or cousins or whatever—straighten, and march out the door. The bell jingles in their wake.
I gulp a breath, meeting the beautiful man’s gaze. It's us alone in the room. Just me, and the man I served sad brown water.
“I'm sorry,” I say, gesturing to the evil machine. “It's brand new… well, brand new to us. We just got it, and a couple of the pieces fell off.” I reach down, grab the box, and show him the contents.
He leans over to study the box of parts. A pause, and he nods. “Right.”
To my surprise, he swings off his coat and lays it on the counter. His friends are still waiting outside the door, their backs to the bakery. One blows on his fingers as if to warm them, but they seem content to stand outside the shop. As ordered.
Weird.
The beautiful man has gone to the door and flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’
“What are you doing?” I squeak.
“Making an espresso,” he says, catching my gaze and holding it as he undoes his onyx and silver cufflinks. He sets them down and rolls up the sleeves of his luxurious dress shirt.
Why is he undressing? Not that I’m complaining.
He keeps talking, his smooth voice rich as espresso. Well-made espresso.
“Mia zia had a machine like this,” he says. “It broke and I fixed it. I’m good at fixing things. It made me her favorite nephew.” His right cheek creases for a moment and I catch sight of a dimple. Goodness gracious. Model stunning looks and then a dimple.
I go to fan myself and knock over another paper cup.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Durn things… always in the way.”
The beautiful man is behind the counter now. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know his dark eyes are the color of bitter chocolate.
“You have sugar…” He holds my eyes as he gestures to my front, and I look down in horror. I've gotten powdered sugar all over my front. My breasts look like the snow-speckled twin peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Oh!” I try to dust it off and end up smearing sugar everywhere. Now my breasts just look glazed.
The customer tilts his head. He’s looking into my eyes, not at my breasts. I’ll give him points for that. “Allow me,” he mutters, nodding his head towards the espresso maker.
On autopilot, I step out of the way. There’s something about him that makes me want to follow his orders. Or maybe I just want to study him from the back.
And what a sexy backside he has. A firm ass in sleek black slacks. There’s a hint of expensive cologne swirling around me. Not too much, not unpleasant. I lean in closer before I realize I’m sniffing him.
Luckily, he doesn’t notice. He takes the box and approaches the recalcitrant machine. Implements clatter as he starts removing and reattaching random tubes and metal protrusions. I hover at his shoulder, my hands helpless at my sides.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “Your friends are outside…” The three men are standing on the snowy sidewalk, their hands shoved in the pockets of their dark coats. They look bored and cold.
“They'll wait,” he says, and bangs on the side of the machine so hard, I jump.
“Easy, principessa,” he murmurs. Principessa means princess. I know that much from working here.
What I don’t know is why he’s calling me ‘princess.’ Or why my fingers are itching to bury themselves in the stranger’s thick, black hair.
“This is Stefanos’ territory,” he says while he works. “Does he give you any trouble?”
“I don't think so…” Stefanos? Have I heard that name before? “Mr. Rossi owns the building, so there's no landlord.”
“Hmm.” He pauses in his work to reach into a pocket, and hands me a black business card. “If you have any trouble, you call me.”
Okaaay. I study the card. ‘Royal Regis’ is all it says, along with a single number. A cell number?