Chapter Twelve Georgia
“ T his is the first time Georgie’s been off and I haven’t. It sucks. It’s not fair.” I wince at the backlog of orders I need to fill and my brother’s perfect inventory records that make perfect sense to him and not to me.
Cindy and Diana listen to me, nodding. They’ve got the easy job, no offense. They can take food and drinks and serve them. Cindy’s busy tweaking Claire’s website and ordering business cards.
“I like it so much better when he makes the food and organizes the kitchen and I just focus on the bottom line and atmosphere,” I whine. Yes. I’m grumpy. I miss my brother. I miss Claire.
I miss Douglas, but I tell myself I’m not allowed to.
Maybe it’s good that I’m busy trying to do all of my usual work and Georgie’s job, too. Well, not his real job, but some kind of a patch job. I can make simple things like eggs and bacon, and there are plenty of bagels, pastries, and other items that Georgie prepped before he left. I’ll keep things rolling until Georgie comes back. Until Georgie and Claire come back, I correct myself.
I’m usually a boundless ball of energy (ask anyone), but I suddenly lean on the counter and stare at the list of things Georgie told me he wanted stocked and ready by his return from his honeymoon.
My brother may have softened, but I don’t even want to think what will happen if his precious walk-in doesn’t have shallots, gruyere, and mushrooms upon his return.
The door to the coffee shop glides open and swings shut with a soft hiss. “Welcome to The Pine Loft—” The smile I force to my face drops off in shock. All I can do is stammer and tug at my apron, swishing my ponytail out of the way.
And pinch myself. Hard.
Nope. It’s him. Douglas. Douglas “My Fantasy Highlander” Wickstaff is standing next to my counter. Cindy and Diana are having a hissing, niggling, whisper-fest. I’m probably drooling.
“Douglas! You’re still here.” I smile at him as he strides to the counter.
His face is serious, dark hair swept back in a small ponytail at the collar of a crisp white shirt that tucks into a kilt.
“Aye. I’m back. I’ve been transferred to the New York branch. I told my managing director that I didn’t have much holding me back home, as long as I could work remotely. Fresh start.” He shrugs. “Nice town. Good to be near old friends. Coffee, dark roast, please.”
“It is. On the house.” I put a muffin on a plate and slide it to him. “Welcome home.”
There’s the tiniest glimmer of light in his eyes, but it never reaches his lips. No smile. Not even a smirk. “Thank you. I’ve been dreaming about these pastries. And that coffee.”
“Oh, coffee!” I turn and sprint. He’s here. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here, really here. I pinch myself again, and it still hurts. Fresh start? Old friends? Those are promising words. Right? I think so. He’s dreaming of our food. That’s good.
Well, Georgie and Claire make the food. But I make the coffee.
“On the house, too.”
“Thank you. That’s no way to run a business.” Douglas takes the cup and inhales. “Nectar of the gods.” His facial muscles relax.
No smile, but it’s damn close.
“I thought I was the only one who called it that,” I tease, my energy miraculously restored.
“Not around here.” He risks a sip, blowing on it first.
The steam curls off the surface of the white ceramic mug. I can’t help but watch how his lips move. Pucker. Blow.
Sweet Jesus, I’m not okay. I’m wet from watching a man drink coffee.
This is going to ruin my career.
“Ahhhh. That’s good,” Douglas groans way deep down in his chest, the noise so low and satisfied, so downright criminally delicious that it practically causes a tidal wave from my salivary glands.
“You should come in every day.” I try to make small talk to cover my staring. “I didn’t think anyone loved coffee that much—aside from me, I mean.”
“Your particular blend is unique. Worth appreciating.” That unsmiling glimmer is back, settling in and reaching out in warm waves.
Yep. I’m gone. I’m seeing invisible smiles. Fantasizing about him kissing me. Groaning like that as he stretches me, fills me, takes me to unknown peaks of ecstasy—
I may have to lie down if this keeps up. “Uh. Oh! Let me give you a bag of our house blend as a welcome present.” I turn away just to get a little breathing room. Gotta collect myself.
“I must refuse.”
Why does everything in that deep Scottish voice sound so damn sexy and courtly? It’s the kilt. Let’s blame the kilt. I bite my lips, and my pelvic muscles do acrobatics.
“Okay, fine. I have a bag of dark roast,” I manage to string together words and totter to the shelf to get one of our little bags of pre-ground goodness.
“No, no. Can’t let me cut into your profits. Especially not with inflation the way it is.”
I turn in time to see Douglas’ eyes scanning over the sheets on the counter. Financial matters. Inventory. Payroll. It’s private. I should be more careful. I should be mad that he’s not minding his own business.
But I want everything I do to be his business.
“So down bad,” Cindy singsong whispers as she breezes past.
“Hm?”
“I said I’m gonna go out back,” she says brightly.
Smug ass.
“So. Um. What will you do remotely?” I put the bag by the register. “Where are you staying? Renting? Buying?”
“Still doing accounting for the International Aviation Consortium. And I’ll be renting a townhouse starting next week. I haven’t seen it. I’m on short-term let, but if I like it, I’ll let them know to extend the contract.”
“A townhouse? Where?”
“It’s called Townhomes at Pine Point,” Douglas looks at his phone screen. “I didn’t pick it out. The IAC has someone who books hotel rooms, relocates pilots and staff, and that sort of thing. Why? What’s wrong? You look like Pine Point might be a mistake.”
I close my open mouth. “I—No! I think it’s a great neighborhood. Really. I love it. I mean—I live there.”
Now it’s Douglas’ turn to have a stunned look on his face. “No!”
“I do. Well, in a town this size, it’s not surprising. There are only two townhome developments, and they’re both pretty big—for this town.”
“Aye. Well. Nice to meet you, neighbor.”
“Nice to meet you, neighbor.”
Highlander fantasy meets Boy Next Door fantasy? I might turn into a puddle right here on the floor.
It’s a blessing when the oven rings loudly and saves me from death by embarrassment, lusty Wicked Witch of the West style. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I’m front of house, kitchen imposter, and paperwork gal all at once. Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll come back and tell you more about Pine Point? Can I get you a sandwich? Fresh shortbread?”
“Don’t tempt me, woman,” he growls, but there’s no malevolence in his voice.
Oh, fuck. Growling. Woman .
Three years of smutty romance books at Wednesday night book club is finally going to bite me in the ass.
Is it wrong that I can suddenly visualize taking a nip of what are sure to be exquisite firm green buttocks?
That’s what I thought.
Douglas should run. Save himself.
But he doesn’t. “Fine, one piece of shortbread—but I insist on paying—and maybe seeing if I can work off some of the expense you’ll incur in supplies now that I’ll be here day and night.”
Day and night.
He means for coffee, idiot. You know that. Calm the fuck down.
But I can’t.
Douglas sits at one of the tables in the back as I scurry away.
I sneak a look at him from the small hall that connects the dining area to the kitchen.
Those legs. That hair.
His eyes meet mine, and I practically dive back down the hall, hurrying to rescue the cookies before they burn.
I may need to spend five minutes in the walk-in before I venture back out.