6. Noelle
SIX
NOELLE
After insisting he walk me to the door, I immediately run up and grab my laptop out of my office before heading to my apartment to feed Hemmingway and get to work with manly inspiration fresh in my head.
Settled in with my tea, laptop open, Hemingway curling around my hip like he’s personally offended I left him alone for a few hours today, I pet him as I stare at the words that spilled out the other night.
Emmett’s eyes burned like fresh espresso as he pressed her against the counter, his strong barista hands cupping her like she was the only latte in the world worth frothing.
I groan out loud. “Oh my God, kill me.”
Hemingway stretches and flicks his tail, clearly unconcerned with my impending humiliation due to the fact that Dash Sterling read this.
I scroll down.
Her breath hitched as his fingers found the tiny silver spoon … and flicked her bean with the precision of a man who’d measured exactly one perfect scoop of sugar. With every swirl, every stir, she was closer to spilling over—hot, sweet, and impossible to contain.
My head drops into my hands. “Kill me twice.” I look at Hemingway. “This is what happens when you haven’t been on a date in six months and you write past midnight, hopped up on too much caffeine.”
But when I lift my eyes, I don’t delete it. Because buried under the whipped-cream cheese of it all, something’s working. Something’s sparking. And maybe—just maybe—it’s fun to let it go too far.
So, I set my tea down, flex my fingers, and add:
He tastes like caramel drizzle and late nights, his lips bold and careful, like he knows exactly how fragile I am in this moment. One kiss, and I’m undone—steam rising, milk foaming, my heart hammering against porcelain ribs.
And then he’s inside me, sliding home with the slow, decadent pressure of hot espresso filling a porcelain cup. Thick, dark, and impossible to mistake for anything else.
I gasp, every nerve sparking like foam bubbling over, every inch of him addictive, caffeinated heat. He pours himself into me like the perfect shot—rich, strong, and just enough bite to make me moan for more.
He moves with the rhythm of a barista who knows his craft, grinding me down in perfect strokes, pulling me apart until I’m nothing but froth and fire beneath him.
I clutch at his shoulders, desperate, wrecked, unable to imagine starting a morning without this man, this body, this coffee-made-flesh buried deep inside me.
I sit back, blinking at the screen. My cheeks hurt from grinning. It’s absurd. It’s corny. It’s possibly the worst thing ever written.
Hemingway purrs louder, as if in smug agreement, before pawing at the edge of my keyboard.
“Don’t get greedy,” I warn him, nudging his tail away from the space bar. “You don’t get co-author credit.”
I keep typing. Because, in this world, Emmett-the-barista can be as whipped-cream ridiculous as I want him to be. He’s not Dash Sterling. He’s safer. Easier. And tonight, he’s mine and, hopefully, by next fall, he can be everyone else’s, too.
His breath is hot against my ear as he murmurs, “You want it sweet?” The rasp in his voice could melt sugar by sound alone.
My body arches, begging for more, and he chuckles low, the kind of sound that belongs in the back corner of a café, where forbidden things brew stronger than espresso.
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He grabs the whipped cream, cold metal nozzle hissing, and drizzles a line down the curve of my stomach. I shiver as he licks it away, every lap of his tongue a perfect swirl—slow, deliberate, like latte art no one will ever see but me.
My laugh bubbles out, breathless and needy, because it’s ridiculous and obscene and exactly what I want.
And then he’s inside me again, relentless, each thrust a dark roast hit to the chest, each groan a shot of caffeine keeping me wide awake.
My nails dig into his shoulders, my thighs tremble, and I swear I could grind myself to dust against him and still come back begging for one more pour-over.
He whispers my name like it’s a drink order he’ll never get wrong, and I break apart, spilling over in waves, too hot, too sweet, too much—and not nearly enough.
I lean back from the keyboard, staring at the screen, cheeks warm and heartbeat tripping like I just downed three mochas in a row. It’s indulgent, it’s ridiculous, it’s … fun. And maybe that’s enough.
I read it over again, wincing and giggling at the same time. It’s like hearing myself on karaoke night after too many glasses of Chardonay—painful, but also kind of electric.
“Okay,” I mutter, tapping the screen with one finger. “This is bad. Like, paperback-in-the-clearance-bin bad.”
Hemingway lifts his head, blinks at me, then promptly yawns in my face.
“But also,” I whisper, leaning closer to the words, “this is kind of good?”
Because the truth is, the ridiculousness is half the charm.
I can see it so clearly—the books that have lined my shelves, the women who’ve come into Pembrooke Books asking for just one more book boyfriend before the holidays ,the girls who stay up until three a.m. with a pint of ice cream and a book.
They’d eat this up. They’d laugh with me, swoon a little, maybe text their best friend that they’ll never look at a latte the same way again.
The thought makes my pulse trip. Because this isn’t the book I’ve been laboring over—sanding down tenses, tightening prose, rewriting sentences until they gleam.
This is different. This is messy, indulgent, a little embarrassing. And yet … it’s alive.
Every writer of romance judges themselves on the same impossible scale: Can I make someone feel?Can I make them laugh, blush, sigh, ache? Can I pull them through the page and make them believe—for a heartbeat—that love really is out there waiting for them?
That’s the holy grail. Not the perfect plot arc, or the clever metaphor, or the line polished within an inch of its life so that they no longer seem realistic. It’s that moment when a reader closes a book, presses it to their chest, and whispers, God, I needed that.
I’m that girl, who sat next to their father, knowing there was little to no hope, for days, and read romance to feel anything.
And I know this isn’t Austen. This isn’t Elizabeth Bennet’s wit or Captain Wentworth’s letter—the lines may not reach into readers’ souls, and make them cry for decades.
I’m just frothing milk. Spraying whipped cream. Spinning out metaphors so ridiculous that they make me laugh while I type them.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe readers don’t only need the kind of love they’ll swoon over forever. Maybe, sometimes, they just need a love that makes them giggle, makes them gasp, makes them forget the ache in their chest for one night.
And if Emmett, the barista, can give them that? Then maybe, just maybe , I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to.
But the idea of actually … showing it to anyone?
My stomach flips. People would know . They’d see straight through me to the part that secretly likes being ridiculous, the part that secretly thinks a man pressing you against a counter with espresso-dark eyes isn’t the worst way to spend an afternoon.
Then it hits me: Lauren … would know .
“Absolutely not,” I say, slamming my laptop halfway shut.
Hemingway paws at it immediately, meowing his protest. I glance down at him and huff a laugh. “You’re absolutely right. Hemingway may have used his real name, but the women I grew up admiring didn’t always get that freedom.”
I think of Mary Ann Evans, who became George Eliot to be taken seriously.
The Bronte sisters—Charlotte, Emily, and Anne—who wrote as Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell.
Even Louisa May Alcott, who used pseudonyms before publishing Little Women, was able to come out later in her career.
They disguised themselves to survive, to publish, to tell the stories they weren’t supposed to tell.
And here I am, afraid of what people might think about frothy metaphors and espresso-eyed baristas.
Maybe hiding behind a name isn’t cowardice. Maybe it’s tradition. A shield. A way to make space where I can be both ridiculous and real without letting Lauren— or anyone else —get the satisfaction of mocking me for it.
Hemingway nudges the edge of the screen with his nose until I reopen it.
“Fine,” I murmur, fingers finding the keys again. “But if I end up publishing under ‘Frothy Bean,’ it’s on you.”
At some point between whipped-cream metaphors and deciding if “espresso-dark eyes” was too much—it wasn’t—I must have passed out. The last thing I remember is Hemingway’s purr rattling louder than any twelve-pound cat should be able to.
The buzzing wakes me—low, insistent, rattling at my side. Without thinking, I fumble for it, pressing it to my ear.
“Hello?” My voice is scratchy, weighed down by sleep.
A girl’s voice cuts through, sharp with confusion, “Who’s this?”
I blink, rubbing my eyes. “You called me. Who’s this?”
“This is my brother’s number.”
My stomach drops. Dash’s phone. Right. I have Dash’s phone.
“Oh—oh my God. Okay, I can explain.” I shoot up, words tumbling out before I can even stop them.
“This is Noelle. I went to college with your brother, Dash. There was a coffee incident. My coffee. I spilled it. On my dress, I’d just bought for a wedding I have to go to.
Which, long story short, is hopefully being saved— fingers crossed —but my phone is dead, and he has two, so he offered me one until I get mine replaced.
Actually insisted. Totally an accident. I promise I wasn’t snooping, I didn’t even look at it until it rang, and honestly, I was half-asleep and thought it was mine, which it isn’t, obviously. ”
There’s silence on the other end.
I flop back against the chair, wincing. “That … sounded way guiltier than it actually is. Is this Briar?”
“It’s fine and yes.” She sighs. “Honestly, you sound nicer than he would if I called this early.”