Chapter 3
“Do we have any more caramel pies?” Callie asks mid-stride.
I flick my eyes to the pastry case, then to the kitchen door, before swallowing a frustrated huff.
It’s only just past nine, but we’re almost cleared out already.
Some days are like this, and I’ve come to expect it after so many years in business.
Still, it’s rare that we’re so barren this early on a Tuesday of all days.
I pop my head into the kitchen while wiping my damp palms down my apron. The short hairs at my nape have already fallen from the bobby pins I used to hold them up this morning, and I can feel them tickling my skin. With a frazzled movement, I’m slicking them back into place.
The kitchen’s spotless, without so much as a fleck of flour on the counter. Ruthie clocked out over an hour ago, and while a few metal racks hold extra croissants and cookies, the pies are nowhere to be found.
“Nope,” I tell her a beat later.
“Maybe we should add them to Ruthie’s list for tomorrow. We’ve sold more of those than the raspberry croissants this week.”
“She could use your help for a few days, actually,” I say before reaching for the freshly brewed espresso.
Pouring it into the biodegradable cup with the Blank Page logo on it, I watch as the double shot flows over the milk and ice, lightening in colour. In a blink, I’ve got the lid popped on and a straw tucked in my palm against the side of the cup.
Once I’ve slid it onto the end of the counter and called the name on the order, I twist to face my sister, waiting for her answer. She slides a croissant into a brown baggie and hands it to the person on the other side of the till with a perfect, white-toothed smile.
“When? I’m at the hospital Wednesday to Saturday next week.”
“We’ll figure it out. I can ask her in the morning, but Sunday for sure. She’s got a thing for weekend prep.”
Callie laughs, and it sounds the same as it used to when we were kids.
Free, wild, and so damn happy that it almost hurts to hear.
She’s always been the one with the glass-half-full view.
The sibling who can see the light in any situation, even when it should be impossible to break through the darkness. And there was plenty of that.
I’ve envied her for that as much as I’ve been frustrated by it.
Sometimes, I’d love for my sister to hate someone as much as I do and feed my despair instead of offering words of encouragement.
There has to be something evil beneath all that good .
. . even if it’s only as bad as wishing someone who’s pissed me off could stub their toe or step on a LEGO.
Callie makes that twinkling sound again before rubbing my arm and beginning to take another order at the register.
I let the topic drop and slide up beside Eli.
He’s snapping a lid onto a strawberry banana smoothie while simultaneously flicking on the second blender.
The loud whirring noise engulfs the chatting voices around us.
“You’re hovering,” he chides lightly, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “The whole point of having employees is that you don’t need to work as hard.”
Heat creeps up my throat. “There was just a rush.”
Eli’s a few years younger than me at twenty-three, but he’s mature enough to pass for twenty-five at least. Well, if it weren’t for his slop of a head of hair, maybe. The deep blue streaks through it aren’t the problem, but the mullet itself.
Now, I’m not against longer hair at all.
I don’t mind the whole messy thing. Actually, I think I prefer it over the whole “clean and styled” thing that most men who come in here have going on.
It’s the way he’s cut the mullet to look like he took a pair of scissors to it after one too many drinks that ruins it.
“Well, the rush is over,” he counters, grabbing another cup for the frappe.
“Are you trying to tell me to leave my café?”
“You said it, not me.”
I let loose a deep noise from the back of my throat and leave him be.
The last thing I’m going to do is disappear, though.
I’m not the type who can hide away in a back room while others do everything for me.
They may be my employees, and yes, I do trust them to run things on their own, but I’m incapable of sitting back on my hands.
It just won’t ever happen.
So, I let the two of them take care of the orders while grabbing all the dirty dishes and bringing them to the back. They sink to the bottom of the steel basin, hiding beneath the soapy water. My hot pink rubber gloves are folded over the edge of the sink, exactly where I left them last.
A few minutes later, I’ve finished with the dishes and taken my gloves off when Callie pops her head around the door.
“Still want to help? I’m starving.”
The gloves come off with a loud snap, my fingers sweaty from wearing them. “Sure. Give me a sec.”
Her lips spread into a smirk before she ducks her head out of view. Immediately, my hackles rise. I glare at the door, annoyed, as I realize punishingly fast that I should have told her no.
A few calming breaths are all I allow myself before adjusting my damp apron at my front and tucking the loose strands of hair sticking to my cheeks behind my ears.
I feel warm, as if I’ve spent the last ten minutes outside jogging instead of hunched over a sink, scrubbing dishes. It’s too familiar a feeling.
Fixing my expression into one of nonchalance, I shoulder open the door and step back into the café. The sunlight burns my eyes as I squint past the rays beaming directly into my face. Even half-blind, I can make out the shape of him on the opposite side of the counter.
Suddenly, Eli and Callie are both too busy to tend to the till. My sister is already scurrying out of the café and onto the busy sidewalk with a Blank Page–branded cup in her hand, and Eli’s fisting a carton of oat milk while his shoulders shake silently.
I force my shoulders back and lift my chin when I approach the till and avoid looking into the alarmingly bright green gaze in front of me. Instead, I stare at the dimple in the customer’s chin and refuse to indulge in any further examination.
“Good morning. What can I get you today?” I bite out, forcing a smile.
“Good morning, Quinny. I’ll take my usual. Please.”
The low, confident drawl of his voice when he says my name like that is so ridiculously sexy that it pisses me off even more than him coming here again does.
My eye twitches with the need to look up or down or in any direction that will provide me with more of a view than just his chin.
A very chiselled chin with a pink, inch-long scar that cuts right through that dimple.
I grind my teeth. “And what is that again?”
“You remember,” he purrs, a plump, red lip appearing in my vision.
“How about you just tell me again?”
He hums, and I lose my grip on the tether that was keeping me focused. Flicking my eyes upward, I find twin glimmering emeralds watching me.
Beckett Rourke stands before me with a dirty smirk that makes my toes curl into my sneakers despite the fiery rage that’s boiling in my belly.
I sip in a breath and brace my hand on the counter, leaning forward enough to stabilize my suddenly weak knees.
Because, of course, they’re damn near trembling.
It’s simply not possible to be in this man’s presence without being shaken by it.
He’s well over six foot, with muscles that constantly fight against the seams of his clothes and the looks of a god from some Greek tale.
Piercing yet enthralling green eyes, a jaw that could slice without you so much as feeling the sting, and a cocky, crooked grin that makes it obvious he knows exactly how hot he is.
The dark brown-black hair that curls beneath the edge of his baseball cap and behind his ears has been that length for as long as I’ve known him, and it’s certainly no mullet. I almost wish that it were, just so he could have at least one thing about his appearance that I didn’t find attractive.
Unluckily for me, his wrapping is perfect enough to trick my brain into thinking he isn’t as bad as I know he is. For a few moments, at least.
I stiffen and drop my gaze, only to find it stuck on the cropped hem of his roughly cut muscle tank.
The dark trail of hair cutting a line between slabs of muscle and beyond the elastic waist of his gym shorts causes my cheeks to flare with throbbing heat before I clench my teeth and yank my eyes up and away.
The sight of his grin spreading wider and wider drives me to insanity.
“Do you not have anywhere else to get your coffee?” I snap, hating how winded I sound.
His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, making it glisten. “When the customer service here is so warm and fuzzy, why would I wander elsewhere?”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I.”
I jab my fingers into the screen in front of me and input the coffee order that I can’t seem to shake. “Anything else?”
“Aren’t you going to ask for a name for the order?”
“Silly me,” I bite out, clasping my hands on the top of the screen. “What’s the name?”
“How about you write your phone number instead?”
I blink, keeping my mouth pressed in a straight line. His chuckle rumbles across the space between us, carrying the scent of his cologne with it. Refusing to inhale it, I scrunch my nose and steal a look over his shoulder, expecting to see a long line of customers behind him.
Instead, the rush has died, and it’s just him.
Something sours in my stomach as I shake my head and turn the debit machine toward him. “That’ll be five dollars and twenty-eight cents.”
“How long are you going to make me wait before you give in, Quinny?” he asks, sobering a bit as his smirk falls into an easy smile.
His sleek, black leather wallet appears in his hands, and then he’s sliding a black card out from the top slot. I divert my gaze when he taps it to the top of the machine.
“I’m not going to give you my number. You should quit asking before you start looking desperate.”