9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Lina
Istep out of the kitchen with an unintended smile already tugging at my lips from EJ’s messages—and at that exact moment, I notice him.
To my left, seated at one of our tables with the plush purple velvet chairs, is a figure that instantly catches my eye.
Holy shit. This has to be the guy. Mr. M.
He’s wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves casually rolled to his forearms. The fabric fits too well to be off the rack, tailored across broad shoulders and chest before tapering neatly at his waist. Black dress pants and polished loafers complete the look.
The whole ensemble radiates quiet confidence.
Very GQ.
As if sensing my stare, he lifts his gaze from the laptop.
The glasses come off easily, like they were never part of the look to begin with—just a practical tool he uses when he needs them. He rubs the bridge of his nose in a small absent-minded gesture that does entirely unfair things to my concentration.
Good heavens.
Without the glasses, his face carries a kind of effortless authority.
A strong jaw shadowed by the faintest hint of stubble. A mouth that rests in a neutral line, relaxed but controlled, as if every word is chosen carefully before it’s spoken. The kind of face that doesn’t need to raise its voice to command attention.
His eyes are a warm hazel-brown, almost honey-colored when the light catches them. Soft at first glance, but observant. Eyes that miss nothing and reveal even less.
Eyes that are studying me right now.
His dark hair is neatly trimmed at the sides and longer on top, subtle threads of silver woven through the black. Not enough to age him. Just enough to make him look distinguished—as though time merely brushed against him on its way by.
Even sitting, he seems impossibly large.
The rolled sleeves expose deeply tanned forearms marked by dark ink that disappears beneath the fabric. Tattoos winding where I can’t quite see them. His hands are large and strong, appearing capable of building something with care—or breaking it without effort.
The shirt conceals very little. Years of discipline are evident in every visible line of him. Broad shoulders. Powerful forearms. A chest that strains faintly against the fabric.
His long torso and sheer presence makes the chair beneath him appear too small.
I force myself to keep walking, reminding my feet how to behave, and my wide-open mouth to close, even as my mind lags a few beats behind my body.
As I reach Kay, she turns and catches me watching Mr. M.
I watch the moment as it clicks for her, the spark of an idea igniting behind her eyes.
Uh-oh.
“Hey,” she whispers, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m about finished up here, but I realized I totally forgot to put in the last food order.” She pauses, adding in a muted voice, “For Mr. M.“ She points in his direction, carefully disguising the gesture like she’s sharing state secrets.
I glance over and catch Mr. M staring my way, curiosity flickering across his face. Curious in the way of someone who already knows he’s being discussed.
I offer a brief, polite smile—professional, contained—and refocus on Kay.
“What did he order?” I ask. “I can run to the kitchen and make it really fast.”
Oddly, my confidence comes undone in his presence, slipping through my fingers when I least expect it. If I can scurry back to the kitchen now, that would be great.
Her face falls. “Oh damn…” she groans, though there’s something suspiciously playful about it. “I can’t remember. Tonight must have fried my brain.”
Her eyes light up with unmistakable mischief. “I think you should go ask him yourself. And while you’re at it, maybe get his name? And, oh I don’t know…his number?” She wiggles her eyebrows.
I groan. “Oh my god, you are so mischievous.“ I grin, already resigned. “I’ll go ask—but only about the food.”
The entire team has tried to set me up at least a dozen times—friends of friends, customers, cousins, dating apps that “happened” to download on my phone.
Kay sighs dramatically. “Boring,” she drawls.
I scoff, but I can’t stop the small smile creeping onto my face as I turn toward the cafe tables.
I walk up to Mr. M and summon my business-owner’s smile.
“Hi,” I say, stopping beside him, acutely aware of the distance separating us. “I’m so sorry, but Kay completely forgot to put in your dinner order—and unfortunately, also forgot what you asked for.” I offer a small, apologetic smile.
“I’m heading back into the kitchen anyway, so I figured it would be easier to ask you directly and have your order out shortly.”
Mr. M leans back slightly in his chair, studying me.
And then…he smirks.
And damn this man to hell for having such an unlawfully attractive smirk.
“I see,” he says smoothly. “I’m surprised Kay forgot. I usually order the Italian focaccia sandwich.” His smile deepens as he adds, “And by usually, I mean nearly every evening for the past couple of weeks.”
I blink then close my eyes briefly, realizing what game Kay played.
“I’m…so sorry about that.”
Mr. M reaches up, removes his glasses, and sets them on the table with quiet care. The gesture suggests he’s making room between us.
He leans fully into the chair, still smirking as he crosses his arms over his chest.
The movement pulls his sleeves tight, fabric stretching over muscle that looks hard-earned.
Veins faintly visible beneath his inked skin. They threaten to burst free from the restraint of cotton and tailoring, as if his body doesn’t quite belong to something so civilized.
For a brief second, I forget why I came over at all.
“That’s quite alright.” He says.
There’s an ease to him—a contained power that doesn’t demand attention but somehow commands it anyway.
He watches me steadily, unreadable, waiting. And instantly the distance between us grows smaller, charged, like the air before a storm.
“It’s a great sandwich,” he continues. “I hear the owner makes the bread from scratch.” His gaze lingers, curious. “That’s probably why I enjoy it so much. It reminds me of being back east.”
The cafe noise fades into the background, leaving me holding his attention—and the quiet realization that I’m standing here gawking.
“That would be me,” I blurt. “Co-owner and bread maker.”
Bread maker? Why did I say that?
His expression shifts, something softer settling behind the confidence. “I thought so,” he admits, gesturing subtly toward the wall behind me. “I saw the article about the shop’s opening. The one with the photo of you and your business partner.”
He looks back at me, earnest now. “Everything I’ve had here tastes amazing. But more than that, it’s the atmosphere. This place is very well-thought-out. Inviting. It’s evident you and your partner care deeply about how this place makes people feel.”
The compliment lands deeper than I expect.
I nod, offering a small smile. “That means more to us than you probably realize.”
We hold each others gaze for a moment, until I chicken out and look away.
“Well,” I say, glancing toward the kitchen, “it’s getting late. I should get your dinner started before we close.” I smile genuinely. “Thank you for the kind words—and for coming back. It truly means a lot. Val and I put our heart and soul into this place.”
I hesitate, then add, “I hope you enjoy your meal.”
“Alex,” he says, as I turn away.
I stop and turn back.
He’s holding out a small matte black card between two fingers.
Curiosity beats caution by a hair so I take the card.
Alex Lombardi.
“I figured you could at least tell Kay you got both my name and my number.”
My heart literally dives.
“Oh—God.” Heat rushes to my face. “I’m so sorry.
Kay and the other staff members are always trying to…
hook me up with someone.” I gesture vaguely behind me, words tumbling out too fast. “They mean well, but they have this ongoing mission to fix my personal life, which—just to be clear—was not my intention here. At all. I wasn’t trying to get your number under any sort of… pretense.”
Why am I still talking?
Alex’s brow lifts slightly, amusement flickering as he tilts his head. “I see,” he says calmly, “I assume that means you’re single.”
“Yes—no—well,” I stumble. “I mean, yes. I am single. Very single.” I laugh, instantly regretting the emphasis. “But I wasn’t coming over here in a this-is-a-setup way. Or a please-give-me-your-number way. I’m just doing my job.”
I wince. “Professionally.”
For the love of God, someone SHUT ME UP!
“I didn’t want Kay thinking she failed at her little operation,” he says easily, gesturing to the card. “That’s all.”
“Oh...” Relief and mortification crash together. “Right. Of course.”
“Well—anyway,” I add quickly, seizing my escape, “I should really get going.”
I turn, only to remember my manners at the very last moment. “Oh—and my name is Lina. Lina Hill. Nice to meet you, Alex. And again, so sorry for this very awkward encounter. I’m going to head into the kitchen now and put a pot over my head.”
“Nice to meet you, Lina,” he replies, that familiar half-smile returning. Unrushed. Unbothered. Like the entire exchange amused him more than it unsettled him.
I nod and retreat toward the kitchen, my embarrassment trailing behind me.
“What the fuck was that?” I mutter to myself.
I bury my face in my hands, wishing I could disappear after making such a spectacular fool of myself.
With a quiet fuck it, I finish his order and hand it to Kay. Then I throw myself into closing tasks, wiping counters that don’t need wiping and organizing shelves already in order. Anything to stay back here. Anything to avoid walking back out there while every nerve in my body feels stripped bare.
As I move through the warmth and clatter of the kitchen, his name lingers.
Alex.
It fits him better than Mr. M ever did.