“Fine!”
I’m banging through the fridges and milk and machines,breathing heavily through my flared nostrils, until I put the cap on his steaming drink and slam it down on the pick-up counter.
“You look ridiculous, by the way,” I mumble and wipe my hands on a towel.
“What?” His hand wraps around the paper cup and he sets it back down, shaking out his burnt hand.
I smile. “Nothing. Enjoy your spit latte.”
“What?”
“I said,enjoy your latte.”
Christian regards me carefully with his eyes pinched, but I give him a grin that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Thank you, Lana.”
The deep rumble of his voice makes my grin falter. He willnotwin!
“I’m leaving!” Natalia comes out from the back and freezes, smiling. “Oh, hey Christian.”
He smiles. “Hi, Natalia.”
“Here to break my friends heart again?”
I slap the counter with the rag. “Natalia!”
His lips press together tightly and he shakes his head in an obvious contrition. “No, just trying to take care of it.”
“Do better this time,” Natalia says all too happily, pushing open the cafe door. “I’m off. Bye sharks!”
I groan as I exit from behind the counter, hoping he’ll leave, and dolly off toward the books—my safe space. I busy myself by fixing, restocking while my trusted employees cover the register and café.
“Lana.”
I jump, the books in my hands dropping to my feet and my heart races with the thought on their spines and covers denting from the trauma. “Christ!” I bend and pick them up,inspecting each carefully. “You don’tdo that!” I chastise, not knowing who it was in the first place.
I stand with the books stacked in my arms and turn to see the same delicious man in a horrible suit that accentuates every muscle in his upper body. I wish I could burn that suit off.
“What?”
“So how long since it first opened?” He takes a sip of the latte that I didn’t spit in.
“About a year and a half,” I mumble.
“That’s good,” Christian says softly. “I’m proud of you, baby.”
My heart flutters and I’m slamming the books against the shelves as I restock. “Stop.”
“I’m not going anywhere until we talk.”
The money. The bookstore cafe. The house.
I shake my head.
The drinking.
“There isn’t anything to talk about,” I mutter, restocking the romance section. I’ve read almost all of this section—blushed over the fictional men and, slightly abashed, pictured Christian’s face during the smutty scenes.
“Yes,” Christian says firmly, “there is.”
