“They were, yeah.”
“What kind?”
“Triple chocolate.”
He releases a moan that goes straight to my dick, and I notice the way his sharp jawline leads to a long, slim, perfectly biteable neck. I trap my lips between my teeth. The guy is shorter than me—at six foot five, most people are—but he’s not short. He’s all long legs and arms, guarded blue eyes, and an easy smile.
Down, boy. We’re in a crisis situation here, and your dry spell is not a priority right now. Especially when directed at perfect strangers who walk into our kitchen uninvited.
“They’re my favorite,” the guy says.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any to sell right now.”
“Not yet,” he says, crossing his arms.
“I’m sorry, I can’t…”
“You keep apologizing. Why don’t you go handle the line of undercaffeinated customers while I deal with your brownie situation?”
I crane my neck to look over him into my coffee shop, and fuck, the line is out the door. How am I going to have time to work on the order without any help?
Wait.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“I can’t make a drink to save my life, so you better go deal with the hangry crowd.”
“No, the other thing.”
He walks farther into my kitchen and picks up the Bittersweet apron hanging by the door. “I’m going to bake you the best brownies you’ve ever had in your life.”
I want to argue, but with the line of people needing my attention, I can’t afford to waste more time. As they say, beggars can’t be choosers, and at this point, I’m definitely the beggar in the situation.
“Hell, what’s the worst that can happen?” I mutter, grabbing two slices of bread and putting them in the toaster, making sure to set the timer correctly. His smile gets to me, and I can’t help returning it.
“What’s your name?” I ask as I go around the worktable toward the front.
“Constantine.”
“I’m Julius.”
“Hey,” he calls as I walk past him, “there’s a kid out there. He looks like me but shorter. Can you give him a glass of water? He needs to take his meds.”
“Sure thing. Can you butter that toast and bring it out when it’s done? I have some apologizing to do outside.”
I walk out, trying to ignore the weird feeling in my gut and the possibility that my kitchen might go up in flames before the end of the day.
The crowd isn’t angry, just hungry. This is Stillwater, after all. But the line is long, and I can’t afford to lose any business.
I spot the kid straight away, so I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and put it in front of him. He’s wearing a Hall of FameT-shirt under his heavy coat, which he still has on, even though it’s a cozy seventy degrees inside my coffee shop.
“Thanks,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
He looks to be around fourteen or fifteen and is the spitting image of Constantine. Is this his kid? My quick mental math doesn’t seem to add up. Not that it matters. I have a job to do.
New priority. Serve customers and then find out what the hell is happening right now.
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