Chapter 1
Boston – Massachusetts
Present day
“…Her hands are soft, her heart is brave,
She gives what no one ever gave.
And in her eyes he starts to see
A future shaped like “we,” not “me.”
Even when the past calls loud,
Even when the truth’s unkind,
They choose the now, the here, the real,
The love they’re learning how to feel.
She is sugar in his silence,
He is learning how to stay.
Two lonely hearts in perfect chaos
Finding home along the way...”[2]
“How long until the performance is over?”
Whoever spoke to me has a voice so powerful it could have been heard from the lunar platform.
The feather duster, along with everything on the shelf beside it, hits the ground as I turn around to see who the unfortunate soul is who nearly scared me to death. I was prepared for a regular client, but there’s nothing regular about this man.
No, ma’am. Everything about him is superlative.
Oh my…
I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with such an impressive appearance, even considering the fact that I’m a card-carrying fan of romance movies, the kind where the protagonist leaves us with wet panties in two minutes.
I give the man—who nobody needs to tell me is wearing a suit that surely costs what it would take me ten months of salary to save—a thorough examination.
The leather dress shoes are so new I can see my reflection in them. The navy-blue suit pants don’t have a single crease.
As I raise my gaze, I’m not the least bit ashamed of dissecting this delicious male specimen.
I’ve never seen anyone who looks like this in person, and I want to memorize every detail very well. I really need a new avatar for my fantasies—Giulio Berruti was starting to wear out in my erotic dreams.
The man is huge—which isn’t very hard to achieve, considering I’m only five feet two—but he’s big in a hot way.
Scratch that.
Hot, no. More like scrumptious.
His chest is as broad as a wall, and I don’t think I could even measure his shoulders if I spread both arms. Yeah, I know, I tend to exaggerate.
His hands look like tennis rackets and make me certain he could reach several parts of my body at once.
Even the guy’s neck is handsome. Can you believe that?
Finally, I return to his face, which I only gave a quick glance before.
What can I say? He has a lot of material to be examined.
But before I can get to his eyes, the contraction in his jaw shows me he’s annoyed, and I take a step back.
I’m not one to be easily frightened, but for goodness’ sake, besides being a giant, the guy is intimidating as hell.
Not the kind of intimidating that makes you feel physically threatened, though.
He’s the kind of person you don’t want as your enemy, because he gives off the impression he’s about to bite someone at any moment—which, given his appearance, doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
Whoops! Focus, girl.
He didn’t seem to be in a good mood when he talked about my little dance, but now he sounds like he’s about to fire me, even though, as far as I know, he’s not the owner of the café.
As always happens when I get nervous, I start talking like crazy.
“Yes, sir, I’m done. I usually don’t dance in the morning because I wake up in a bad mood, but this sunny day had the power to transform my Friday. Sunny days always get me excited. Do you prefer winter or summer? Oh, I almost forgot. Black coffee or with cream?”
Only after I notice his astonished look do I realize that he’s probably ready to request that they take me straight to the madhouse—and that can’t happen. I have to keep saving money to move forward with my plans, and of course, to pay off all my debts.
Taking a few breaths to calm myself down, I clear my throat, straighten the hem of my dress, and brush off an imaginary speck of dust from my ten-dollar uniform.
Gathering all the dignity I can muster, I lift my head, looking him straight in the eyes, as my mother taught me to do.
“If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll take you to a table. ”
I think he’s not very used to taking orders, but it seems like I left him speechless, although I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.
As I walk, I try not to knock anything else over, keeping my steps steady, but I feel his gaze burning into my back.
I survey the cafeteria area and think that His Majesty doesn’t quite fit in here.
It’s not just because of the expensive clothes. Even if he was dressed like a beggar, he would still stand out in the restaurant that serves a full breakfast for three dollars and ninety-five cents—with coffee refills, of course.
He’s the only customer at the moment, and when we reach the table I consider the nicest here, I stop and wait for him to sit. Instead, however, the sexy giant stares at me as if he’s in front of a laboratory guinea pig.
“Black or with cream?” I make an effort to only ask that because the two-minute verbal diarrhea from earlier has left me feeling embarrassed.
“Aren’t you going to pick up the pots you knocked over?” Just like the first time he spoke, his voice sounds harsh, coming from someone who doesn’t have much patience and is used to giving orders.
“Customers come first.” God, could I have said anything more cliché than that?
“I’d prefer you to pick up the pots first.”
Of course you would, Mr. Owner of the World.
“Look, it’s not the first time I’ve dropped things.
You know those videos where someone pulls an item off a shelf in the store and everything else falls to the ground?
I’ve been the star of a few of those, so you can rest assured that as soon as I serve you, I’ll take care of it in an instant.
Believe me, if the manager comes and sees a customer without a coffee cup in front of them while I calmly put away pots, I could lose my job. ”
He finally moves, and I thank God for it, because I’m not very good at arguing.
“Black.”
“Huh?”
“You asked how I wanted the coffee. I always drink it black,” he says, making it clear he’s accustomed to being served.
Always drink it black, I mentally repeat.
The way he said it makes it sound like from now on he’ll be having his breakfast in this magnificent cafeteria every day.
Right.
Let him just taste the potato water we call coffee that we serve here, and I bet he’ll order the place to be shut down.
I stifle a laugh at the thought, but then I remember that I need this job.
No, no, no.
Don’t you dare mess with the place where I work, suit-and-tie man.
“Do you prefer your coffee stronger?”
Intuition tells me yes, but it isn’t kindness that makes me offer another option—which isn’t even on the menu, for starters—but because my crazy head is afraid he might be some sort of coffee inspector, get upset with the dirty water, and then actually shut down the restaurant.
You must be wondering how I can make stronger coffee. It’s because, although I’m American, I was raised by a Brazilian, so I know perfectly well what real coffee looks like, and it definitely isn’t like what we serve here.
“Do you know how to make stronger coffee?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
If I didn’t know, I wouldn’t have offered, sir.
But I love my tips, so I just reply, “Yes, sir. I can prepare the best coffee you’ve ever had.” I quickly correct myself: “According to the available raw material, of course.”
It may be my imagination, but the corner of his mouth seems to lift in an attempt at a smile. But it happens so quickly that I’m not sure if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
“Alright. Surprise me, Olívia.”
“How do you know—?”
Before I finish the question, he points to my name tag.
Feeling embarrassed by the bizarre show I’ve put on, starting with the Despacito performance, then the dropping of the pots, followed by the verbal meltdown, I flee from there as if a serial killer were on my trail. “I’ll be right back.”