Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36206 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
When the morning rush is over, I make a cup of mint tea and hand it to Mr. Rossi. “Why don't you bring that up to the missus?”
“Oh, she’ll love that. Thank you, Leah.” He beams and disappears, leaving me in an empty shop. I putter around and tidy up, savoring the quiet.
The bakery is my favorite place in the world, but I especially love it before opening, or in the break between the morning and lunch time rushes. That’s when I get a chance to bake.
Other than that, I wouldn’t change anything about the bakery—except maybe the tip jar with the handmade label taped to it. Last summer, Mr. Rossi scrawled Leah’s College Fund on it. Totally embarrassing when my fellow high school students were coming in for their morning coffee, especially my cheating ex and his new, beautiful, blonde and scrawny prom queen of a girlfriend. Now that it’s February and they’re back at their fancy Ivy league college, I can breathe a little easier.
I like my little life. I wouldn’t change anything—except the lack of funds in my or Mr. Rossi’s bank account. And getting better medicine for Mrs. Rossi.
I’m in the back, sifting confectioner’s sugar to make a quick almond-flavored glaze for the cooling scones, when the bell jingles.
“Coming,” I call. My grip on the sugar bag slips and a white cloud puffs in my face. I grab a wet cloth and pat my face before rushing out to help the customer.
A tall man in a long, black pea coat is standing in front of the counter, his dark glossy head bent towards me as he regards the chalkboard menu. My steps slow. I have the strangest sensation, like I’m about to step over a threshold to another world. I’m holding my breath.
He raises his head, and my heart trips over itself. Strong jaw, dark olive skin, patrician nose—his face is beautiful, regal, and unapproachable all at the same time.
I take a step forward and my elbow knocks over a stack of the paper to-go cups. I fumble to catch them, but only manage to kick them, sending them rolling across the floor. Now I'm bobbing and weaving up and down, trying to catch them all.
Is it too much to hope the handsome customer didn’t notice? I look up and he’s leaning over the counter, his dark eyes on me. His beautiful lips twitch. “Need help?”
Lordy, his voice is as beautiful as his face. Smooth and deep. Delicious.
“I'm all right,” I say. Reaching up, I try to set a stack of cups back on the counter, but miss it entirely and they all fall back down. One bonks me on the head.
“Never mind,” I say, rising and taking my place behind the register. I heroically ignore the fallen cups littering the floor at my feet. “What can I get you?” I dust my hands off briskly. Calm, professional. That's the ticket.
“Un espresso,” he says in a delicious bass that sends goosebumps flowing up my arms. My very floury arms. Crap, I’m covered in flour. And powdered sugar. And some cinnamon. I surreptitiously try to brush some off, but there are still little white and reddish brown flecks dusting my hands.
“An espresso?” I repeat. “We don’t—”
The man’s gaze swings to my right, and I turn to follow it to the antique espresso maker sitting on the counter. The machine gleams, silently judging my lack of barista skills. “Oh, right.”
The bell rings again and three more guys walk in. They’re all wearing dark coats and have the same dark and gorgeous Mediterranean features as the first guy. Are Dolce and Gabbana doing a photoshoot outside?
The four guys look so similar, if they’re not brothers, they’ve got to be cousins. The first one at the counter staring at me is the most beautiful of them all. And he’s still got his whole attention on me, looking like he’s hungry and I’m a sugar-dusted donut.
My blush starts at my nipples and starts rolling slowly up my cleavage—which is on display. Thanks to the heat of the ovens, I peeled off my sweater and am only wearing a white camisole. And tomorrow’s laundry day, so I’m down to my last, most ridiculous lacy bra. Pink, of course. Luckily, the cami is thick enough to conceal everything, but the bright straps are showcased on my shoulders. The blast of cold air that tailed the customers makes my nipples spring to points.
“Right,” I say. “I'll just get you that, then…” I turn and knock another cup off the counter. This one I catch and clutch carefully as I walk over to my new nemesis. My expression, mirrored in the polished chrome, is full of dismay. I hope the customer can't see my reflection.
The three domes on top are like miniature replicas of St. Peter’s basilica. Ornate and just as intimidating. One dome is labeled: Cappuccino.