I set down the coffeepot and wipe my hands on the café’s apron, tamping down my fears and pasting on a smile. I remind myself that this is a café and he’s a customer looking for a fix of caffeine. The soothing sounds of Adele play over the speakers. Nothing bad can happen when Adele is singing in the background, right?
As the man approaches the counter, he looks up, his hoodie falling back.
Oh. My. God.
My brain struggles to compute what I’m seeing.
Chase James stands in front of me.
I’ve never been the type to get all woozy from some celebrity. Daisy and Audrey love to tease me because I don’t know the latest bands and movies. I’m more about all things classic. But this isn’t some random celebrity. Justin Bieber leaves me cold. The One Direction dudes? Meh.
But Chase James? He’s in an entirely different league. In fact, no other league comes close, I think in awe.
Now that I see his face, I can say the hype surrounding him is deserved. I’ve always thought that a star’s good looks must be exaggerated on-screen or in magazines, that they are enhanced by good lighting, makeup, and a liberal sprinkling of Photoshop. But this man, though scruffy this early in the morning, is almost unearthly beautiful with rich auburn hair and deep green eyes.
His eyes rake over my face, my body. Perhaps his questioning look is because my hand still holds on to the pot of coffee and I’ve yet to say anything. I stand frozen. My mouth opens, but no sound emerges.
My brain is stuck on trying to solve the conundrum before me. How is it possible for eyes to be so green, lashes so long?
He runs a hand over his face, looking up in a way that’s almost shy. “A very large black coffee, please. Your regular brew, nothing fancy.” His voice is low and deep. It’s familiar. But not.
Of course, I’ve heard him speak in The Wanderers, but in that movie, he has an English accent and not this American drawl I can’t quite trace.
When I don’t react right away, he tilts his head, his eyes shifting toward the pot.
I’m expected to pour coffee into a cup. There’s no way.
He’s just a customer, I remind myself. “Um, s-sure. Will that be all?” My voice is about three octaves too high.
I close my eyes in embarrassment, silently forming the word shit as I turn to grab a to-go cup, rather than a mug for here. I figure Chase James isn’t going to sit in my café and sip a cup of coffee. As I pour, I peek at him through my too-long bangs. This is my fatal misstep.
He’s watching me, as if trying to solve a puzzle. Our eyes meet, and my heart stops.
Until scalding liquid burns my hand and splashes onto my white shirt and apron.
“Oh crap!” I realize I overfilled the cup, and coffee runs down the side.
Before I react, he grabs a cloth from the counter and dabs at my hand and then my shirt. He gets dangerously close to my breast. I’m not complaining. But I can feel my cheeks on fire. One of the worst things about having such a pale complexion is that I blush easily. I hate having my flustered emotions broadcast on my face.
“Are you okay? That had to hurt,” he says. His eyes wander from my chest to my shocked gaze and back down to my name tag. His mouth quirks in a private smile before forming my name, as if testing it out. “Olivia.”
My hand smarts where the coffee burned it, but the heat from his touch affects me far more. Damn. He’s lethal, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, considering he was voted the Sexiest Man Alive last year.
I step back to gain some equilibrium.
“I’m fine, just feeling clumsy, but that’s not unusual.” Nervous laughter bursts from me as I swipe at the spilled coffee on the counter. I breathe in and will my overactive heart to chill out. As good-looking and famous as this dude is, he’s a guy, like any other.
What do public speakers do to help them when they’re nervous? They imagine the audience naked. Yes, I’ll do that.
I sneak another glance at him, which is a huge mistake. Nope! No! Abort! Imagining him naked makes it even worse because, in my imagination—and I’m absolutely sure, in reality—Chase James naked is one hundred times hotter than Chase James clothed.
I whirl away to grab another paper cup. After taking ten calming breaths, I attempt to pour his coffee again. This time, I pour the dark, steaming liquid in without spilling a drop.
I put the lid on, check it twice, and only then do I have the guts to turn back to him, my cheeks red, I’m sure. Heat turns to goose bumps when his hand brushes against mine as he takes the coffee.