A man with dimples is my freaking weakness. They aren’t supposed to look good on a man as ice-cold as Camden.
“How do you like your coffee?” I ask, speaking to the wall instead of looking at him.
He clears his throat. “Flat white. Hot. As big as you can make it with vanilla and oat milk.”
I laugh, starting the espresso machine. I welcome the hissing of the machine as it rumbles to life because it fills the tension-filled silence between us.
“Something funny?” he asks once the shots start to trickle out.
I look up, making eye contact with him through the mirror on the wall. “Your order just wasn’t what I was expecting.”
“Something wrong with my order?”
“You strike me as a black coffee kind of guy. Maybe an Americano.”
“I spent some time in France in my twenties. I do enjoy just an espresso shot every now and then.”
I don’t answer him. I want to ask him more about France, about what it was like. I’ve always wanted to go to France. It’s on the top of my bucket list. I would geek out to go to a French p?tisserie. All of my dreams would come true just to be in the presence of pastry chefs with that much talent and finesse.
Neither one of us speaks as I finish making his coffee. At one point, he answers a call, but it doesn’t last long. After a brief exchange, he’s silent again.
Turning around, I set two large to-go cups in front of him. He looks from me to the coffee cups to me again. His dark eyebrows pull together on his forehead. “I only asked for one coffee.” Reaching into his suit jacket, he pulls out a sleek black wallet. He hands me his credit card, and even his card feels expensive. It’s heavy and metal and far more fancy than my creased, plastic card that I’m pretty sure expires in a few months.
“There’s only one coffee,” I answer, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the other drink I made him. It was more out of habit than anything, but it’s too late to go back on it, so now I just have to own it.
“Okay,” he drawls, dragging out the word like he’s confused.
“One is the drink you ordered; the other is a tea. With chamomile, honey, and a couple of secret ingredients. I always had migraines, and my mom would make it for me. I figured it might help…” My words fall flat because now it seems ridiculous. This man has yelled at me multiple times for things that were a complete accident. I shouldn’t be nice to him. I don’t know what possessed me to make him the drink, but now I have regrets.
“That’s, uhh…”
Clearly, neither one of us knows what to say about the gesture. I hurriedly swipe his card and pretty much toss it back to him, wanting to be done with him and this interaction. My mom didn’t raise me to be rude to people. As someone who has suffered from many migraines, I just wanted to help.
Even if it was for him—the douchebag in a suit that tests every last ounce of my patience.
“I didn’t want to listen to you complain,” I rush out. “Couldn’t let Mr. Fancy Art Gallery have a headache.”
“Yeah.” He studies me for a second. I look right back at him, even though my cheeks burn from embarrassment that I just might’ve extended an olive branch to enemy number one.
“Don’t think too hard about it. You’re already enough of an asshole. I didn’t want anyone to have to deal with you if you had a headache as well.”
He picks up both of the cups, handling them with care. The hot pink cups seem out of place in his large hands. I don’t stick around to say anything else. Things are back to enemy-ing between us the way they should be. I blame the fact that it’s too freaking early to be dealing with him.
I scurry back into the kitchen, taking comfort in being alone and doing the mindless task of folding out dough. The bell above the door dings a few moments later, and it’s only then that I can take a deep breath.
Today is already weird, and the sun hasn’t even risen yet.
It gets weirder when I greet Lexi later on in the morning and find a crisp hundred-dollar bill neatly placed in our tip jar.
5
CAMDEN
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My voice echoes through the space, the anger surrounding everyone in the room.
Daly takes a few steps backward until he’s almost hiding behind a large gallery print. “Well, Mr. Hunter…”
I grunt, hating the sound of the name. My hand waves in the air dismissively as I look from him to Trisha.
“They really just canceled?”
She nods. Trisha is the one person who doesn’t ever cower at my mood swings. It might be because she’s old enough to be my mother and was the very first employee I ever hired. My raised tone doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest. “I’ve tried calling a few local places. There’s not a ton of options, but I’ll continue to try and find something, sir.”