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)
“A cappuccino?” I ask, reaching for the level hopefully.
“No, principessa. Only an espresso.”
Rats.
Between customers this morning, Mr. Rossi and I figured out how to turn this thing on. I push a button and jump as steam hisses out. Maybe there is a steamer attachment—good for steaming milk.
“Whoops,” I say. “Not that one.” I pull out the metal thingy, add the freshly ground beans, and tamp them down. I wedge the metal thingy holding the espresso grounds back in and push a different button. A green light comes on.
Then the entire machine starts shaking like it's going to blast off of the countertop. It's the espresso-making cousin of Howl's Moving Castle.
“We just got this espresso maker,” I shout cheerfully over my shoulder. I keep my face calm, as if everything is normal. Fake it till you make it.
The men by the door smirk at each other, but the man at the front still hasn't taken his eyes off me. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck when I turn.
“Come on, come on,” I murmur to the machine. “You can do it.”
Just when I've given up hope, there's a hiss, and a squirt of unappetizing brown liquid into the paper cup. It smells sort of coffee-ish.
Thanking the coffee shop gods for their continued good favor, I take the paper cup back to the customer and set it in front of him. The four men in front of the counter regard it.
“I’m more of a tea person, really,” I say to fill the silence. My blush has reached the crests of my cheeks and is the process of unfurling like twin red flags in front of a bull.
The beautiful man says nothing but picks up the cup and, with more bravery than I've seen in a long time, tosses it back. The room is still as he slowly sets the cup back down.
“It's good,” he lies through his teeth.
I wrinkle my nose at him.
“Looks like brown water,” one of his friends jokes, and something in the man’s dark brown eyes goes icy. From nice and amiable to full of cold anger. His jaw clenches. “Out,” he orders without turning.
To my surprise, the men on either side of him—his brothers or cousins or whatever—straighten, and march out the door. The bell jingles in their wake.
I gulp a breath, meeting the beautiful man’s gaze. It's us alone in the room. Just me, and the man I served sad brown water.
“I'm sorry,” I say, gesturing to the evil machine. “It's brand new… well, brand new to us. We just got it, and a couple of the pieces fell off.” I reach down, grab the box, and show him the contents.
He leans over to study the box of parts. A pause, and he nods. “Right.”
To my surprise, he swings off his coat and lays it on the counter. His friends are still waiting outside the door, their backs to the bakery. One blows on his fingers as if to warm them, but they seem content to stand outside the shop. As ordered.
Weird.
The beautiful man has gone to the door and flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’
“What are you doing?” I squeak.
“Making an espresso,” he says, catching my gaze and holding it as he undoes his onyx and silver cufflinks. He sets them down and rolls up the sleeves of his luxurious dress shirt.
Why is he undressing? Not that I’m complaining.
He keeps talking, his smooth voice rich as espresso. Well-made espresso.
“Mia zia had a machine like this,” he says. “It broke and I fixed it. I’m good at fixing things. It made me her favorite nephew.” His right cheek creases for a moment and I catch sight of a dimple. Goodness gracious. Model stunning looks and then a dimple.
I go to fan myself and knock over another paper cup.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Durn things… always in the way.”
The beautiful man is behind the counter now. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know his dark eyes are the color of bitter chocolate.
“You have sugar…” He holds my eyes as he gestures to my front, and I look down in horror. I've gotten powdered sugar all over my front. My breasts look like the snow-speckled twin peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Oh!” I try to dust it off and end up smearing sugar everywhere. Now my breasts just look glazed.
The customer tilts his head. He’s looking into my eyes, not at my breasts. I’ll give him points for that. “Allow me,” he mutters, nodding his head towards the espresso maker.
On autopilot, I step out of the way. There’s something about him that makes me want to follow his orders. Or maybe I just want to study him from the back.
And what a sexy backside he has. A firm ass in sleek black slacks. There’s a hint of expensive cologne swirling around me. Not too much, not unpleasant. I lean in closer before I realize I’m sniffing him.