Chapter 13Ethan
Chapter 13
Ethan
I can't believe I'm working in a café that looks like Pepto-Bismol started a Pinterest board—and then added some more pink. It's enough to give you a headache. Everything is pink. And I do mean everything .
Seriously, this place is so frothy pink we should be serving unicorn tears instead of coffee.
And what's worse, Francine has just handed me one of her pink frilly aprons.
“This is the largest size we have,” she says in her accented English as she holds the offending item of clothing up in front of me. She shrugs. “You will look nice in it, no?”
No is right.
If the tabloids could see me now, they’d have a field day. Rowan Thornheart, legendary warlord of the winter realm, wearer of a pink frilly apron.
"I'm sure it’ll be fine," I say as I slip the anti-warlord apron over my head.
It's the same shade of pink as the rest of this coffee house, so at least part of me will blend in with the walls.
"There," Francine says with a satisfied smile on her face. Or is it a smirk? It's hard to tell. "You look very nice, Maverick.”
“Thanks.”
Francine wanders off, humming what sounds a lot like a Justin Timberlake song, but I might be wrong.
Not only does taking this job give credence to my story that I'm an American tourist, here on a working vacation, but what famous Netflix star goes to a small country in Europe to work at a coffee house that looks like a strawberry milkshake?
No one, that's who.
And, if I’m honest, there's another reason, and that reason is currently standing about five feet away from me, also wearing the offending apron—but on her the apron looks totally cute. She's wearing her usual black skirt and T-shirt, but whereas that might make someone else look plain, with her long dark hair in a ponytail, her smooth olive skin, and the only makeup her dark-ringed eyes, she looks nothing short of breathtaking.
And the way she felt in my arms when I rescued her from the tree? I blow out a breath. She felt good. Dangerously good. But I'm not going to act on my attraction to her. The last thing she needs it's me coming on to her after what happened with Greg, and besides, anything that happened between us could be nothing more than a fling—and there's something about Amy that tells me I would want a whole lot more than just that.
But no matter how much I ignore my growing attraction for her, that protective streak in me will not quit, not when it comes to my beautiful and mysterious house guest.
A beautiful and mysterious house guest who’s currently being unashamedly flirted with by Pierre le Something-or-other. I didn't catch his last name. I was too busy noticing the way his eyes practically drank Amy in. The way he held her hand and lifted it to his lips in greeting, like he's freaking Pepé Le Pew.
I snort. Pierre’s a culturally insensitive, lecherous skunk cartoon.
Yeah, that works.
Right now, Pierre is showing both me and Amy how to operate Shayna, the espresso machine, while taking frequent glances at Amy as though she's the best thing since sliced bread.
If only he knew she can’t slice bread to save her life.
I don't know what it is but watching him flirt with her is getting right under my skin. Why does he have to stare at her so much? I mean, I get it. Anyone can see she's gorgeous. But can’t he direct his eyes someplace else? Like, I don’t know, literally anywhere that doesn't make me want to throttle him with his perfectly knotted necktie? Or perhaps toward the coffee machine he's supposedly such an expert with, instead of mentally undressing Amy? But no, apparently Pierre's eyeballs are magnetically drawn to her like she's the North Pole and he's a particularly desperate compass.
I study her profile as Pierre guides her in using the machine. I know a few things about Amy, but really, what do I actually know about this woman I'm sharing a house with?
The answer to that is very little. I don't even know her last name. All I know is that she's Amy, she comes from a strict, wealthy Ledonian family who runs some kind of education foundation, and she’s bent on breaking all the rules she’s had to live her life by.
Well, that and the fact she's a little too naive for this world, demonstrated by her enthusiasm for virtually everything, from getting a job at this coffee house right down to the way she fell for Greg’s lies.
On the plus side, there's the fact that no one in this small town seems to have recognized me. I’m sure the goth costume has helped, and Amy and I have walked freely around the town, which is easy considering it's smaller than my hometown of Maple Falls. The townsfolk have barely even looked at us. Well, other than Pierre, that is, whose eyes are Velcroed to Amy.
I don't have an ego the size of Texas. Or even Maine. I don't expect everybody watches my show. But the fact I got spotted and chased by the paparazzi in the country's capital city does suggest that at least some people know who I am. I kind of expected at least somebody to recognize me, even with my goth costume and eyeliner ringed eyes.
It's almost like I've stepped into an alternate universe in which I'm no longer famous and people don't care what I ate for breakfast, who I’m dating, or what my relationship with my famous hockey-playing brother is like.
It’s refreshing, but it also feels... I don’t know. Uneasy? Yeah, that's the word. Uneasy .
Maybe it's just that I’m not used to anonymity anymore.
But you know what? I think I'm going to like it here.
“What does this knob here do?” Amy asks, turning the knob that adjusts the steam pressure, and instantly the steam wand hisses, shooting out aerated hot water.
Amy leaps back, more shocked than anything.
“Are you okay?” I ask, but Pierre’s got in there first, taking the opportunity to put his arm around her shoulders to “comfort” her.
“Did you get scalded by the hot water?” he asks.
“I think it gave me more of a shock than anything else,” she replies.
“Perhaps you don't touch the machine until you're ready,” Pierre says in soothing tones.
“Thank you, Pierre. I promise not to touch anything else. I'm eager, that's all,” she says.
“Amy hasn't worked at a coffee house before,” I explain.
But Pierre completely ignores me. “I love this eagerness in you, Amy. It is thrilling to me as a barista.”
Her eagerness is thrilling to him as a barista? More like as a lecherous skunk.
Man. When did I get so jealous?
I need to chill. Sure, Pierre may be being a little bit overly attentive to Amy, he’s just showing her how to do her job. And for Amy’s part, the way her brow furrows in concentration, her lips parted slightly as she focuses on following Pierre’s instructions is adorable. She approaches learning to make coffee with the same intensity most people reserve for defusing bombs. She wants to learn. She wants to get good at her job.
She really is an intriguing woman.
“It is good that you are learning from me today because tomorrow I must play rugby,” Pierre tells her. “I play for a local club a couple of towns over.”
Amy is concentrating on grinding the beans as he speaks.
“You should come and see me play,” he says.
“Isn't rugby a completely insane game? Like football only without all the protective gear?” I ask.
Yeah, I hear it. I’m Ethan Roberts, an internationally recognized actor, trash-talking some barista I just met because he's flirting with a woman I've known for only a couple of days. A girl who's staying at my borrowed house and seems to have somehow hijacked my common sense in record time.
“You may see it as insane as an American, but here in Malveaux we have a long and proud tradition of rugby. It is a man's game,” he replies, shooting me a look. Which is fair enough. I am being a bit of a jerk to him—with good reason.
“Don't women play rugby, too?” I ask, and Pierre shoots me another look, this time one I'm sure he hopes could magically make me disappear.
“You're absolutely right, Mav. I watched women's rugby at the recent Olympics. The New Zealand team won and the women performed a celebratory traditional war dance. It was very moving,” Amy says.
Ethan Roberts: 1. Pepé le Pew: 0.
Francine asks Amy to help her with the food in the cabinet. "Maverick, you will make the coffee, no?" Francine asks as she passes me some customers’ coffee orders.
“Sure thing,” I reply.
“I will watch to see how you do,” Pierre says.
I start fulfilling the coffee order. It's a little like riding a bike and I get into the flow quickly enough. I make sure there are enough beans to be ground, put the wand in place, and press the button for the dark coffee to drain into the cup. Then I prepare the milk, enjoying the feeling as I stretch and expand it to foamy perfection before I pour into the cup.
There's something about this simple job of making coffee that connects me to regular life. I'm using my hands to create something. I don't want to use a coffee pun, but making customers coffee in a small town makes me feel grounded. Authentic.
It's a nice feeling, and one I haven't had for a long, long time.
The order is for a cappuccino, which I dust lightly with powdered chocolate and present to Pierre with a proud smile. Pierre says something to me in Malveauxian that I don't understand, but the look on his face tells me he's impressed with my skill.
Either that or he just threw an insult at me and I'm none the wiser.
I then spend the next while making coffees for the customers. It's repetitious and methodical work, and I get lost in the rhythmic flow of the work.
"Oh, my gosh, Mav. I've broken so many rules today!" Amy says with obvious glee as she appears by my side. She's wearing a huge grin on her face, her cheeks flushed.
That smile. It's like getting hit with a stage spotlight at full wattage.
I hold the jug in place to heat and froth the milk. "Which rules? I thought you were doing a good job. Francine seems happy enough.”
"No, I meant my family's rules. There are a whole lot of things I'm not meant to do that I've done today. Like handling money, Rule number 336. Oh, and serving people. That's Rule number 592."
I frown at her in disbelief. "You're not allowed to handle money or serve people? Who is your family?"
"I told you. They're horribly strict."
I turn the steam knob off and bang the metal jug on the counter surface a couple times to pop any unwanted larger bubbles in the milk. "There's strict and then there's having rules that would make the military say 'dial it back a bit.'"
She laughs, and the sound does something to my insides that I'd rather not examine too closely. It's bright and genuine, completely unlike the polished, practiced laughs I hear at industry events. "You're funny. Did you know that?” she says.
I'm happy to take the compliment, but don't think I didn't notice she hasn't answered my question.
I'm not going to push it. If her family is as strict and uncompromising as she suggests, I get why she won't want to talk about them, and I totally get why she wanted to escape for a while. They sound the absolute opposite of my kind, open parents who supported all three of their kids in whatever we chose to pursue in our lives.
And besides, I'm not exactly giving her my full story, either. Pot calling the kettle black and all that.
I pour the milk into the coffee cups, creating my now signature decoration.
"Mav, that's so pretty! You have to show me how to do that."
"I thought you had Pierre for that," I reply, and even I can hear the jealousy in my words.
If she notices, she doesn't mention it. "He didn't show me how to make the milk look like that. Will you show me?"
"Sure."
She beams at me. "Thanks. I'll be right back after I deliver these. Which table are they for?"
I check the note. "Table 4. I think that's over by the window."
I watch as she weaves her way through the tables filled with customers, carrying a tray holding the coffee cups and saucers. Her apron is tied in a bow that sits over her skirt, and as she sways her hips, my stomach tightens.
Amy is sexy in a completely natural, unconscious way. She's so unlike so many of the women I meet in my working life. Women who scream for you to look at them. Women who've had every nip and tuck imaginable, their lips plumped to three times their natural size.
Relationships in my world are often publicity stunts, aka "showmances." I don't know why I let Dion talk me into having a showmance with Chelsea, particularly now it seems obvious to me they’re in a relationship. He even arranged all the pap shots of us allegedly on dinner dates, walking hand in hand along the beach, or walking my dog (note: I don't have a dog).
It's so disingenuous.
Amy turns and looks straight at me, totally busting me checking her out. I shoot her a smile as though I wasn't thinking about her in any way other than my housemate and co-worker, before I pull my gaze away, pretending to do something with the espresso machine.
A small voice in my head—one that sounds suspiciously like my sister—whispers: You're an actor, Ethan. You've played dozens of roles. But this might be the first time you've been genuinely terrible at pretending not to care about someone .
A woman who could be my ex’s doppelganger, right down to the angle of her chin and long dark hair, comes and stands next to Shayna.
“Hello, I’m Giovanna Fiorelli,” she virtually purrs in accented English. Italian? Ledonian? I can’t tell.
“Hey there. Pierre can help you.” I nod at Pierre, who’s serving a customer.
“But I want to speak with you ,” she replies, and instantly my heckles rise.
Does she recognize me?
I pour some milk into cups and place them on the counter, where Amy collects them with a smile. “Thanks,” she says. “Table 7?”
“You got it.” I wipe my hands on my apron. “How can I help you?” I ask this woman called Giovanna Fiorelli.
She curves her lips in a smile. “A café latte, please—and your phone number.”
Did she seriously just ask that?
“You want a latte and what?” I ask, wondering whether I misheard her.
“Your number,” she repeats.
So, I did hear right. Huh.
I shake my head, smiling. “I don’t think so.”
“What? Are you saying a woman can’t ask for a man’s number if she thinks he’s attractive?” she asks, leaning her elbows on the counter, pushing her assets together to their best advantage, and gazing up at me.
I’m no stranger to women coming on to me. I know that sounds arrogant, but when you’re a well-known actor, you get more attention than you need, particularly from the opposite sex. I’ve been asked out, propositioned, offered underwear, been asked to sign parts of women’s anatomy, you name it.
“Look, I’m flattered, but I’m just here to make the coffee. Latte, right?” I ask.
The look on her face is wounded as she straightens back up. “I thought—” she begins, but then stops.
I don't ask her to finish her sentence. It's pretty clear where it was going.
I set about making her a latte, willing Giovanna to give up and move on. Perhaps she could give Pierre her number? That would be a nice, tidy solution for all of us.
Amy appears at my side. “Time to share your knowledge, Mav,” she announces.
“Who are you?” Giovanna asks.
“Hello. I’m Amy. Pleased to meet you, although you look familiar to me,” she replies with a smile, offering her a hand, which Giovanna ignores.
“Do you work here?” she demands.
Amy beams at her with pride. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone quite so excited about working in a café. But then Amy isn’t like anyone I’ve met. “Yes, I do.” Her hand is still outstretched, and Giovanna is still ignoring it.
“Do you know Ethan?” Giovanna asks, and I snap my attention to her.
She used my name.
She knows who I am?
“No, I don’t,” Amy replies pleasantly. She pulls her still unshaken hand back and shoots me an uncertain look. “Should I know someone called Ethan?”
I hold my breath as Giovanna looks from Amy to me and back again.
I can’t let this woman blow my cover. I need to act.
“I’m making your latte, Giovanna, and I’ll bring it right over to you personally,” I tell her, hoping the fact she can get some more time with me will appease her.
Her lips lift in a fresh smile. “I’ll look forward to it.”
I watch her walk away and let out a relieved breath.
That was close. Too close.
“What was that all about?” Amy asks when Giovanna has sat herself down at a table in direct line of sight of me.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” I tell her, knowing I’ll need to manage Giovanna if she really does know who I am.
“I know her from somewhere, although I can’t quite place it,” Amy says.
I finish making the latte and take it over to Giovanna. Placing it down on the table, I say, “I didn’t introduce myself before. I’m Maverick Mitchell. I just started working here.”
She takes my hand in hers. “Maverick Mitchell? Oh, I see, darling. It is such a pleasure to meet you, Maverick .”
“Enjoy your coffee. It’s on me,” I tell her.
“You’re spoiling me,” she simpers.
No, I'm strategically keeping the peace. I can tell from the way she said my fake name that she knows exactly who I am. The wink that followed only confirmed it.
"I'll check on you in a bit," I add with a friendly but distant smile before turning away.
This is going to be a delicate balancing act with Giovanna. I need to be polite enough not to make an enemy who could blow my cover, but not give her reason to think there's anything more than professional courtesy between us.
So far, it's worked, even if I can feel her eyes following me across the café as I make my way back behind the counter.
“Do you want me to take you through the full coffee making process first?” I ask an eager Amy.
“Pierre taught me everything I need to know,” Amy replies with the confidence of someone who has considerably more food- and beverage-related knowledge than she has exhibited so far.
“Have at it.” I stand back and gesture at the machine.
“Okay.” She pulls her brows together as she chews on her lip. “I start by grinding the beans. Is that right?”
“Definitely.”
She reaches under the counter and pulls out a large bag of beans.
I say, “There are beans in the machine already.”
I watch her approach the espresso machine. “So, I just push this button?” she asks as she pushes the correct button and the machine springs to life, grinding beans.
After Pierre's unnecessarily thorough tutorial, during which he'd managed to touch her hands exactly eleven times—not that I was counting—she's practically glowing with determination.
“You got it.”
“I can do this,” she announces, flashing me a smile. “Pierre explained everything to me just perfectly.”
I'm sure he did.
She manages to get the coffee grounds tamped down in the wand, inserts it, and soon the dark coffee is flowing.
“You need a cup,” I say, slotting one underneath to capture the liquid.
“I knew I’d forget something. Right. Milk.”
She maneuvers the wand to steam the milk, but unfortunately for her, it hits the liquid at precisely the wrong angle. What should be a gentle steaming process transforms into a mini cyclone as milk erupts like a dormant volcano out of the jug and shoots upwards right into poor Amy's face and hair.
I grab a nearby cloth and hand it to her as I turn the steam wand off. “Here.”
She starts dabbing at her face, and when she lifts her eyes to mine she’s fighting the urge to laugh, her lips twitching.
“Maybe Pierre left out a couple crucial details?” I say, trying my hardest to stifle a laugh that's threatening to burst out.
And then her shoulders begin to shake, and she lets out a snort laugh no tightly-controlled Hollywood starlet would be caught dead doing, and I lose it completely, doubling over with laughter.
If causing minor coffee shop disasters is what it takes to hear Amy laugh in such a free and natural way, I'd happily spend the rest of my life cleaning up milk geyser catastrophes.
"You know," she says between giggles. “I was promised coffee-making would be easy.”
“Who promised you that?”
“Pierre. He said I was a total natural.”
“That's because Pierre has a thing for you,” I blurt before I can stop myself. The last thing I want to do is come across as some jealous guy when she doesn’t see me as anything more than her friend.
Even if I am some jealous guy.
“No, he doesn't. He's just being nice.”
I arch an eyebrow. “How nice have you seen him being to me?”
“You already know how to use the espresso machine.”
It's a good point and I can’t argue with her, but nevertheless Pierre hasn’t exactly paid me the kind of attention he's paid Amy—and he sure hasn't spent half the afternoon gazing at me like a lovesick puppy, either.
“Maybe you could do with a different instructor?” I suggest.
Her eyes meet mine. “Are you volunteering yourself?"
“Sure am,” I reply, reaching for a fresh pitcher.
As something shifts in my chest, something dangerous and warm, I do my best to ignore it.