Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81986 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I stroked myself in time with his rapid thrusts, but my focus remained mostly on Sam.
“I’ll get there. Promise. Get yourself off,” I begged, voice wavering. Maybe I was closer than I thought. “Love watching you lose control.”
“I am. Fuck. Fuck.” Sam, my Sam, my do-gooder choir boy, cursed and fucked me hard and fast, and his transformation to primal sex god was enough to push me right to the edge, closer with every erratic thrust of Sam’s.
And then he cursed again, “Fuck. God. Worth. Yes.”
He was coming, and I swore I could feel the pulse of his come, even with the condom between us. His pleasure tipped me right over, made me shoot all over my stomach. My orgasm came in almost painful waves, making me shudder and shake, robbing me of breath and voice.
Finally, as my heartbeat returned to normal, I laughed. “Hey, look at that. We both won again.”
“We tied.” Sam made a happy noise as he untangled our bodies and took care of the condom. “Everyone’s a winner.”
“Yep.” I chuckled louder, then pulled him down next to me. “I really do love you.”
“Me too.” Sam yawned big and nuzzled into my side. “We never did eat the cookies. Darn. And I might fall asleep in the tub.”
“Sleep.” I kissed the top of his head. “There will be plenty of time for other baths.”
“I like knowing that.” He offered me a dopey smile before reaching over to flip off the light. “And morning is going to come way too soon.”
“Unfortunately, yes. But set the alarm early enough for us to sneak a shower together. And then we’ve got a coffee shop to save. Rest up.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Sam
We didn’t save the coffee shop the next day or the day after. And by Saturday, I didn’t feel like going in simply to tell people the espresso machine was down and to ask if they might like a cold drink instead. We’d made gallons of tea and cold brew and offered smoothies in ever-increasing exotic flavors. And none of it mattered because business had continued to dwindle, and we were no closer to answers for the broken espresso machine. A repair person had been summoned to provide the verdict we already knew: the machine was toast and would cost more to repair than its current value. And vintage parts were hard and pricey to come by.
Saturday, I took my time in the shower and dallied in the yard with Buttercup until a frustrated Worth herded me into his car, a rare time when I was the passenger.
“We’ll be late.”
“Can we really be late if there are no customers?” I mused, knowing full well this was a reversal of our usual roles. I’d been grumpy for days while Worth had tried so hard to be optimistic. And I did have him, and that counted for a lot, but it was wearing, being so happy personally and so worried about the shop and my mission in running it. Had I screwed up irreversibly by not treating Blessed Bean like more of a business and less of a nonprofit? The worry had plagued me all week. Worth had told me over and over that our misfortunes weren’t my fault, but I wasn’t so certain.
Pouting in the unfamiliar passenger seat, I almost missed how crowded the parking lot was at Blessed Bean. In fact, Worth had to park at the defunct gift store next door. A crowd had gathered by the front door of Blessed Bean, and several people appeared to have homemade signs, including Kyla and several of our barista crew, with giant pieces of posterboard taped to sticks.
“What the heck is this?” I craned my neck, trying to make sense of the scene as Worth and I exited the car and made our way to the front of the coffee house. “It’s a protest of some kind?”
“Not a protest. A rally.” Worth pointed at Kyla’s sign, a colorful exhibition of what looked like Marta’s careful lettering. Save Our Shop. SOS. The other signs all held variations of that same slogan. SOS. Save Our Shop. Another of the largest ones added: Fill your cup for our favorite cup!
A peek inside the front window revealed a long line wrapping around the whole room, with George and Marta working the registers. Two of our other baristas served up drinks at the other end of the counter.
“Wow.” I whistled. The early-morning air was chilly, but my shiver had little to do with the temperature. Worth held the door open for me, but rather than passing through, I paused to stare at him. He didn’t seem nearly as gobsmacked as I was. “Did you know about this?”
“George and Marta might have asked for my advice.” Worth gave a deceptively humble shrug. “But I had no idea this would be the turnout.”