Chapter 8 #2
“Two hours. Give or take.”
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I’D HAVE PAID good money to have a picture of the expression on Charlotte’s face when I told her it would take two hours for the dough to be ready.
I’d make it the screen saver on every device I owned.
Her eyes were wide, rimmed with inky-black lashes, and her lips made a deep pink O of surprise.
She was literally wide-eyed and so beautiful it made my chest a little tight.
“That’s not fair. What are we supposed to do for two hours?”
I arched a brow at her so she’d know I had many ideas about how to spend our time.
“We have to give the yeast a chance to work. Otherwise we’ll end up with flat beignets and that would be a travesty. Let’s start with café au lait and work our way up from there.”
Charlotte had one of those fancy coffeemakers that looked like the helm of a space ship.
I was partial to the octagonal stovetop pot I’d had since college, but I could certainly appreciate her upgraded version.
I filled the small cup with some of the espresso ground chicory coffee I’d brought with me and turned the machine to brew.
In a few minutes, I had two shots of espresso and a small metal pitcher of steamed milk.
I grabbed a pair of thick white mugs from the cupboard and the bottle of homemade orange vodka I’d brought with me, and started assembling the café au lait.
I’d spent my first two semesters in college working as a barista.
I still had the moves to prove it. I put a splash of liquor in each cup and topped it with the espresso, releasing the delicious aroma of orange and coffee.
Charlotte stepped closer and breathed in the scent, which fit perfectly into my evil plan.
The woman might stay wrapped up tight on the outside but she had a deep sensual side.
All it took was a little coaxing, and she bloomed like the yeast. Which was a weird comparison and one I didn’t intend to make ever again.
I poured the foamy milk into the cup, lifting and pulling through as I got to the end to make a heart shape on the surface of the coffee.
“I’ve always wondered how they did that. Teach me, Yoda.” Charlotte bumped my hip with hers and reached for the pitcher.
“Only if you promise never to call me Yoda again.” I gave a theatrical shudder before handing her the milk.
I wanted to wrap my arm around her and help her with the milk like every bad pool shot pickup ever filmed.
My body curled around her. My hand went over hers, guiding her movements as I leaned into her.
Charlotte was sexy as hell on a normal day but turned on to something she wanted to learn about made her irresistible.
And I had to resist her if I didn’t want her to put the brakes on our time together.
“Like this?” She mirrored my earlier movement with her hand, glancing up when I didn’t answer to meet my gaze with her big blue eyes.
I swallowed hard and nodded.
“Exactly like that. See...it’s making rings. Now pull through to the opposite rim.”
She did as I instructed and let out a triumphant sound when the heart appeared on the surface of the cup.
“I did it!”
“Yes, you did.” I gave myself a moment to smile at her before reaching for my café au lait. Better to have something in my hands to keep from reaching for her. “Let’s go sit down while we wait for the dough to rise.”
“Give me a minute to put this stuff in the dishwasher.”
“I can help with that.” I started to set down my cup, but she held a hand up to stop me. “I don’t want you to think I’ve got some kind of misogynistic dish aversion.”
“Well, that’s adorable,” she said with a laugh. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got more experience washing dishes than I do. Not because I think I’m above it. Because this is the most action my kitchen has ever seen. Go sit down, Ford. I can handle it.”
I thought about making an action comment, reconsidered, and crossed the few steps from the kitchen to the living room while Charlotte stacked the dishes.
I paused at her bookshelves for a moment—closed off now behind pickled oak cabinet doors—but it was the e-reader sitting on the table next to an overstuffed chair that caught my interest. The chair looked surprisingly comfortable for the designer space, and I imagined Charlotte curled up in it, losing herself in whatever book was on her current list.
The image was followed by the completely irrational desire to keep her stocked with café au lait and anything else she wanted while I read in the sofa across from her.
Or even better, feet propped up on the ottoman with Charlotte’s head resting on my lap, my hand stroking her hair as we read together.
I could use my thumb to smooth the crease from her forehead, the one she got when she was concentrating on something.
That kind of domestic scene was far from my normal fantasy fare, but the longing was as real—and unexpected—as anything I’d ever felt.
It pulled me up short and had me planning all kinds of things that didn’t fit into our arrangement.
“You can sit down,” Charlotte said, saving me from myself.
She settled on the chair, tucking her feet underneath her. That left the sofa for me. I moved one of the pillows out of the way and parked myself in the corner, trying to banish the hair-stroking image from my mind or at least schooling my face so the too-perceptive woman couldn’t read my thoughts.
“This is amazing.” She took a sip of coffee and her lips curved in a cat-licking-cream smile over the rim of her cup. “It seems so simple, but the orange liquor changes everything.”
“The orange is my favorite, but you can try the same thing with lots of other flavors.” I sounded like an infomercial for Coffee Drinks for Dummies.
“You don’t say.” She gave me a look that made it clear she knew how hard I was working to hold onto normal.
Even when she wasn’t doing anything more than sipping coffee, this woman managed to get me twisted up.
“What are you reading?” I motioned to the e-reader on the table beside her and took a sip of my coffee before I did something more awkward.
She gave me an almost sheepish grin. It was an expression I hadn’t seen on her before and one I wanted to see a lot more of.
“Discovery of Witches. You made a compelling case.”
“And? What do you think?” I wanted her to tell me I was right, but more than that, I wanted her to love the book as much as I did. A pleasure shared was a pleasure compounded.
“It made me lose track of time.”
“That’s high praise.” Charlotte immersing her mind deep enough in anything to lose track of things felt like a very big deal.
“It is. A vampire watching a witch magic a book down from the top shelf isn’t the kind of meet-cute I usually go for, but I can empathize with the heroine.
Personally, I’d love to be able to do magic.
I’d move all kinds of stuff with my mind, but I understand the urge to put away childish things.
Even if it diminishes some of the joy. Sometimes you’ve got to push stuff to the side to get things done. ”
“Maybe.” It sounded incredibly sad, but I didn’t think she’d appreciate me pointing that out. “But pushing her power away means not living authentically. That doesn’t feel grown-up or productive. It feels like living a lie.”
“Grown-ups don’t lie? Some days, it feels like one of the only things we all have in common. That and an almost irrational dependence on coffee.” She raised her cup, daring me to contradict her.
I needed to, because she was wrong. Or if not completely wrong, she’d picked the wrong focus. Understandable given the way she spent her days, but too joy-killing to let stand.
“I did a semester in Paris.”
Her eyes widened over the rim of her cup, and I bit back my grin. Charlotte’s curiosity was a constant and one of the sexiest things about her.
“Aside from the out-of-this-world bread and an interesting attitude to dog walking, one of the things that made the biggest impression on me—and actually stayed with me—was the French attitude about coffee. They don’t race around carrying travel mugs.
They stop, sit down, and take the time to drink and actually enjoy their coffee.
It’s not an accessory or a drug. It’s an experience. ”
“I’ve never thought of it like that, but you’re right. Afternoon coffee was one of the things I loved about Paris. That and the small bite of chocolate that came with it.” She smiled at the memory. “Where did you go to school?”
I could almost see the other questions racing behind her eyes, and I was grateful she’d landed on an easy one.
Contrary to my normal preferences, I didn’t want to hold anything back from Charlotte, especially when we’d started out talking about lying.
Truth had kind of been a thing between us from the first night when she lied to the dumbass and told me the truth about what she did.
Knowing she didn’t have a clear picture of the extent of my business made me uneasy.
Or worse. But I was also sure Ford the bartender stood a better chance of getting to know her than Ford the restauranteur.
Not exchanging last names the first night added an unexpected weight to things. One I hoped didn’t end up crushing something important.
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I SHOULDN’T HAVE led with the where did you go to school question.
That path led to questions about goals and work—both his and then mine—none of which I wanted to talk about.
But the idea of a younger Ford, spending time in Parisian cafes, charmed me.
I assumed he’d been younger, but maybe not.
Maybe he’d gone back to school as an adult.
Maybe he was still a student now and bartending was his side gig.