ELEVEN #2
I stepped out of the building, the load I carried dissolving slightly in the cool air. Sliding into the car, I rushed through the streets. The city was just stirring to life, and my mind was already bracing for the day ahead.
Tomorrow was the Spice Me Up book convention, and my appearance wasn’t just expected – it was essential. My name was plastered high on the list of attending authors, a reminder of the sixty-four published titles I’d written so far – more, if Paula managed to do what she had been hired for.
Paula. She was a distraction I couldn’t shake. A surprise, too. The woman commanded every space she walked into. A damn good writer, too. Her presence was a constant itch at the edge of my mind, a tantalising cocktail of admiration and, perhaps, something far less appropriate.
But she wasn’t Scarlett. She wouldn’t be down for what I needed. She wasn’t the kind of person who’d moan with my knife pressed between her folds, beg with her eyes, surrender without a safety net. So why did I keep watching her like I was waiting for her to do just that?
My phone buzzed on the dashboard, breaking the rhythm of my thoughts. My eyes cut to the screen, and the hospice’s name flashed in bold, glaring letters. Something sour coiled in the base of my throat as I thumbed the call button on the steering wheel.
‘Cain D’Angelo,’ I said, my voice clipped, already tense.
‘Good morning, Mr Cain,’ the polite Italian voice on the other end began. ‘This is Nurse Clara from the hospice. I hope I’m not interrupting.’
I gripped the steering wheel tight. ‘What can I do for you, Nurse Clara?’ I replied in Italian.
There was a brief hesitation and it sent a spike of irritation through me. ‘Your father has been asking to see you. He’s been… persistent since last night.’
The words coagulated in my chest. I forced myself to breathe, my jaw tightening as I tried to suppress the surge of anger and dread threatening to bring me down.
‘I am unable to visit today,’ I said.
‘Yes, we understand,’ the nurse interrupted, her tone deceptively placating, and it took all the effort not to punch the phone sitting on the dashboard’s holder. ‘He’s specifically asking for you. We thought it best to inform you.’
I exhaled through my nose, a sharp, controlled release that did nothing to quell the unrest within me.
‘Inform me next time when it’s an actual emergency.’ I didn’t snap, but I gave it my all to sound final, and then I ended the call before she could respond.
I white-knuckled the wheel. The air in the car felt stifling, bearing down on me as his face flashed through my mind.
Kicking the accelerator, the engine roared down the street.
I was unravelling.
He wanted to see me, wanted something from me, as if the years of torment and abuse could be erased with a few words.
Or it could have been a simpler matter. The devil himself had spat him out – sent him crawling back to me as if to say, ‘You deal with him.’ A punishment for daring to take a life – and failing.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t just a memory any more – he was awake. A living, breathing reminder of everything I’d tried to leave behind. And now, no matter how fast I drove, I couldn’t escape the weight of his presence bearing down on me.
I should have left him in the States.
Why didn’t I?
With the past perched on my shoulders, I dragged myself into the office, my thoughts spinning.
That was when I saw her. Entirely too confident, standing over my coffee maker.
My heart lurched at the sight of her arsenal: sponge, spray bottle, and… a fucking screwdriver?
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The events of the morning – the hospice, the emotional load – were already threatening to tip me over the edge. And now this? My sacred coffee maker? Mangling it?
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, my voice dangerously low, though every instinct told me to roar like a lion protecting his territory.
Paula glanced sideways at me, a faint smile playing at her lips. ‘Good morning to you too, boss,’ she replied, her tone bordering on cheeky.
She was in a good mood this morning, despite the bags under her eyes. ‘I’m fixing the coffee maker.’
I blinked. ‘You’re fixing the…’ The words evaporated as I stared at her wielding that screwdriver. ‘Have you ever fixed a coffee maker before?’ No, that wasn’t what I’d meant to say, but I couldn’t risk her quitting on day three.
Her brow arched in mock offence, her movements methodical as she reached out and dramatically pushed a button. Not breaking eye contact, she crossed her arms and raised her chin at me.
The machine rumbled ominously, like a grumpy old man waking from a nap. The sound of water being suctioned hissed like a curse. My soul twisted into a tight coil that threatened to disperse under its own pressure.
Please don’t break, please don’t break, I chanted inwardly.
And then, like the gates of heaven opening, that glorious black nectar poured out, splashing into the cup with a richness that made my teeth unclench. The aroma of roasted coffee filled the air, and I couldn’t help the involuntary exhale of relief.
‘You underestimate me, D’Angelo,’ Paula quipped, twirling the screwdriver like she’d just disarmed a bomb – without even knowing how close it had come to blowing up in her face.
Her lips curved into a playful grin, the kind that exposed teeth too perfect for someone so mischievous.
For the first time, I noticed the sheen of her smile, the way her peach-tinted lips glistened, catching the light. She hadn’t smiled that much up until now, I realised.
Something in me gave way, and a new, far more dangerous tension began to build.
I had to sit down. Immediately. Hide behind my desk before she noticed what was stirring.
We were in the fucking office. In daylight. Every part of me knew I was one glance away from a fucking HR disaster.
A brand-new desk stood adjacent to mine, identical in every way: sleek, dark wood, polished to a shine, with the same ergonomic chair pushed neatly beneath it. Vinnie must’ve arranged for delivery after hours. The sight of it threw me off. She was going to be sitting really close.
‘I swear you looked like you were about to faint just now,’ Paula teased as she plopped into her chair, her laugh soft and melodic.
She handed me one of the two freshly made cups of coffee.
I took the cup carefully, as though it might crumble in my grip.
‘I won’t lie… I was,’ I grumbled, the bitterness of my morning still clinging to me like static. ‘That coffee maker makes the best damn coffee in the world. I’d sell a kidney for it.’ And not just my own.
She angled her chin – almost like a kitten considering something interesting.
‘Coffee is life,’ she added, sidling up to that.
A short chuckle escaped me, though I immediately broke eye contact. Staring into her blue-green eyes too long felt dangerous, like holding a match to a fuse – and I didn’t trust the situation in my jeans to stay neutral.
‘Good to know we’ve got another caffeine addict in our midst,’ I said, trying to keep my tone light. ‘What was wrong with the thing, anyway?’ I nodded at the traitorous machine, its little power light blinking off to spite me like a petulant child.
Paula waved her hand dismissively like it was no big deal. ‘Oh, just needed a good cleaning. A bunch of coffee grounds were stuck where they weren’t supposed to be. I sorted it out.’
Her tone was maddeningly casual, as if this machine hadn’t been mocking me for three whole months, refusing to do the one job it was made for.
I stared at her, incredulous.
‘You’re telling me,’ I said slowly, ‘that this thing wasn’t broken? It just needed to be cleaned?’
She raised an eyebrow, taking a leisurely whiff of her cup, her smirk barely hidden.
‘Machines are like people, boss. Neglect them, and they stop working properly.’
Unbelievable. I felt like a complete moron. How long had it been since I even thought about cleaning it? Months? Years? Did I even know coffee machines needed cleaning?
I glanced at her, then back at the machine, its dark indicator smugly dormant – just to spite me.
‘Fantastic,’ I muttered, dragging a hand over my face. ‘Woke up with a headache, now being outsmarted by a coffee maker and my assistant. Great morning. Truly.’
Paula gave a low laugh, leaning back in her chair with a self-satisfied grin. ‘Don’t worry, D’Angelo, happens to the best of us.’
It didn’t help. Not one bit. And it only made her grin wider.
And I realised – with startling clarity – that this banter had completely taken the weight off me.
Her brow furrowed as she leaned forward and started typing on her laptop. ‘Did you happen to see that last piece I wrote?’
Guilt sank its claws into me. ‘Ah… no,’ I admitted reluctantly, rubbing the back of my neck. ‘I wasn’t feeling well last night.’
I cleared my throat to dislodge her name – the last thing that had left my mouth before sleep.
Her eyes slid to mine, and for a moment, her playful expression softened with genuine concern. It was… unsettling. Almost warming.
‘Are you sick?’ she asked, cradling her cup. She took a sip and froze, her eyes closing as she licked her lips. A soft, involuntary moan slipped out – low, indulgent, too obscene for something as innocent as coffee.
Heat surged through me like an electric fault, shorting out logic and reason.
‘This is some good fucking coffee,’ she said, her voice hushed with reverence.
The profanity rolled off her tongue with sinful ease, and my brain went rogue, imagining how it might sound in other contexts. My throat tightened as I derailed that train of thought – straight into a goddamn mountain of regret.
‘Told you,’ I said, but my voice had dropped into dangerous territory – low and rough. I cleared my throat again, hoping she hadn’t noticed.
‘What’s wrong? Throat infection?’ she asked earnestly, her gaze so genuine it almost felt like a sucker punch.
More like a brain infection, I thought.
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s nothing. My old man—’ The words slipped out, and I stopped myself just in time.