For a moment, Dean just stands there in the doorway, backlit by morning sun. He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him like a sin I’d confess to, and a grey henley that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that yes, Jessica was right, he could definitely carry someone out of a burning building without breaking a sweat.
Not that I’m thinking about him carrying me anywhere.
He recovers first, which is infuriating. His expression shifts from surprised to something I can’t quite read—amusement dancing with heat—before he heads toward the counter.
But not before his lips quirk in what is definitely, absolutely a smile.
“Destroyer of dreams?” Amber whispers, barely containing her laughter. “Really?”
“Shut up,” I hiss, flipping my notebook closed so violently I nearly give myself a paper cut. My heart is doing something erratic in my chest, something that feels suspiciously like anticipation. “This is a nightmare.”
“Morning, Dean! The usual?” Michelle calls out, standing to greet him.
“Morning, Michelle.” His voice is deep and smooth with just enough gravel to make me think of rumpled sheets and lazy Sunday mornings. “Yeah, thanks.”
He knows Michelle. Of course he knows Michelle. This is Twin Waves—everyone knows everyone.
“You two know each other?” I ask, trying to sound casual and probably failing.
“Dean’s been coming here since we opened,” Michelle says. “He’s one of our regulars. Dean, this is?—”
“We’ve met,” Dean says, and now he’s definitely smiling as he turns to face our table fully. His gaze lands on me with laser precision. “Ms. Lennox, right? The boutique owner with the flexible relationship with occupancy limits?”
My spine straightens automatically. “It’s Jo. And I prefer to think of it as optimistic capacity management.”
“I’m sure you do.” He crosses his arms, and the movement makes the henley stretch across his chest in a way that should be illegal. “How’s the glitter situation working out for you?”
I become acutely aware that I probably still have glitter everywhere. “It’s under control.”
“Is it?” His eyes—darker than I remembered, more dangerous—crinkle slightly at the corners. “Because from here, it looks like you lost a fight with a craft store.”
Something hot flashes through me. Anger, yes. But also something else, something that makes my skin feel too tight. “At least I’m festive.”
“Very festive,” he agrees, and there’s something in his tone—warm, teasing, almost intimate—that makes my stomach flip. “I’m sure the fire code violations really complete the look.”
“I didn’t violate anything,” I snap, very aware that my cheeks are flushing. “I had an event. A perfectly safe event that you?—”
“—that exceeded the legal occupancy of your space by forty percent,” Dean finishes. He hasn’t moved closer, but somehow the air between us feels charged. “But who’s counting?”
“Apparently you are. Very carefully. With your little clipboard.”
Something flashes in his eyes. Heat. Challenge. “It’s a standard clipboard. There’s nothing little about it.”
The words hang in the air for a beat too long. I watch color creep up his neck—just barely visible above his collar—and something molten coils low in my stomach.
“The clipboard,” he clarifies, his voice dropping half an octave. “I meant the clipboard is standard-sized.”
“Obviously,” I say, but my voice comes out breathier than intended. “What else would you be talking about?”
His eyes lock with mine. Dark. Intense. For a moment I forget how to breathe. There’s a challenge there, something that makes me want to push back and lean in simultaneously.
“Your coffee’s ready, Dean,” Michelle announces, her voice bright with barely concealed amusement.
The spell breaks. Dean blinks, then turns to collect his cup. I can finally breathe again—except breathing isn’t helping because now I can smell his cologne. Something woodsy and clean that makes me think of capable hands and knowing touches.
“Well,” Dean says, collecting his coffee and a bakery bag. “Enjoy your morning. Try to stay under capacity.”
“Try to stay off your high horse,” I shoot back.
