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)
Luckily, he doesn’t notice. He takes the box and approaches the recalcitrant machine. Implements clatter as he starts removing and reattaching random tubes and metal protrusions. I hover at his shoulder, my hands helpless at my sides.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “Your friends are outside…” The three men are standing on the snowy sidewalk, their hands shoved in the pockets of their dark coats. They look bored and cold.
“They'll wait,” he says, and bangs on the side of the machine so hard, I jump.
“Easy, principessa,” he murmurs. Principessa means princess. I know that much from working here.
What I don’t know is why he’s calling me ‘princess.’ Or why my fingers are itching to bury themselves in the stranger’s thick, black hair.
“This is Stefanos’ territory,” he says while he works. “Does he give you any trouble?”
“I don't think so…” Stefanos? Have I heard that name before? “Mr. Rossi owns the building, so there's no landlord.”
“Hmm.” He pauses in his work to reach into a pocket, and hands me a black business card. “If you have any trouble, you call me.”
Okaaay. I study the card. ‘Royal Regis’ is all it says, along with a single number. A cell number?
“Royal Royal,” I say, because Regis means something like royal in Latin.
“Yes?” His lip crooks upward, giving me a flash of white teeth.
“That's your name?”
“My parents had high hopes.” He shrugs. His hair flops in his face and gives him a boyish look. “And you are Leah.”
“What?” I say, startled that he knows my name. He must have read it on the damn tip jar. “Um, yes.”
“Lovely,” he says softly, before returning to work. I blush all over again.
A few minutes later, he’s re-arranged the levers and reattached the missing hoses, all while I mostly stood around and ogled his ass.
Then he tugs me in front of him, positioning me at the machine with him at my back. He’s big, much bigger than I am. The sleek lines of his suit disguised his broad shoulders, but I feel them as he reaches around me, guiding my hand in the correct pattern. First, we put fresh grounds in the metal thingy and then attach it to the correct spot. His hand is warm on mine. His fresh cologne surrounds me, blending with the scent of the coffee grounds.
“Now, Leah,” he orders, and a thrill runs up my spine. His breath warms the back of my neck.
“This button,” he instructs, pressing it with me. “And pull this.” We pull the lever together. “E presto…”
The machine hums—nothing like last time’s shuddering dramatics. A rich brown fluid shoots out and fills the cup. It smells divine.
He holds my eyes as he takes the cup and sips. “Perfetto,” he pronounces. Still looking right at me, he presses the cup to my lips. “Taste,” he orders. My mouth opens. I’m not really a coffee person, but the smooth liquid is dark and sinful on my tongue.
“Oh,” I breathe. “That’s good.”
“Si.” We’re standing so close together, our faces are inches apart.
“How did you do that?” I whisper like we’re trading secrets.
“I have a way with women,” he says. “She's a woman, no?”
“Sure,” I agree, because I'd agree with anything he says.
“Beautiful women just need to be touched the right way. And I am an expert.” He looks at me through his long black lashes.
Is he flirting? With me?
Naw. “Yes, well, it makes sense,” I blurt. “You're very handsome.” I clap a hand over my mouth so I stop talking, and back up until I bump into the counter. The rest of the cups fall and bounce off the floor.
Oh well. I'll tell Mr. Rossi to take the cost of the cups out of my pay.
A slow smile spreads across his face. He looks like the devil about to make a deal. “You've got some sugar right there.” He points to my cheek. I rub the back of my hand over my cheek. My blush makes my skin hot to the touch, like I have roasting coals in my face.
“Here.” He slowly raises a hand and swipes his thumb across my cheek. Holding my gaze, he licks his thumb. “Sweet,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. I'm not sure why my brain has completely scampered out the door. Say something! “So… your aunt liked espresso?”
“Mmm.” He looks amused, like he knows I’m fumbling for something to continue our conversation. “But not for breakfast. She liked tea—like you. Every morning, she’d have a cup, and into it she would dip un biscotto. A cookie.”
“Biscotti!” I brighten. Cookies, I can talk about. Cookies, I know. “I was going to make a few of those for the espresso. And…” I snatch up the cookbook. “There's another cookie here that looks interesting.” I flip through the sauce-spattered pages until I find the right recipe. “Chocolate and hazelnut…”