ME:
Stop calling him Daddy
PAIGE:
Why? Does it make you blush? Squirm? Or maybe it makes you squirt?
ME:
BLOCKED
PAIGE:
You would never block me. You love me too much. Besides, we saw everything. Now, go apologize to the nice chocolate man before you spontaneously combust
I hateit when she’s right. God help me.
I shower, blow-dry my hair into something vaguely human, and slip into a cream sweater and a pair of jeans. My hands actually shake as I drive downtown. Not because I’m hungover as that headache is down to a dull throb. No, this is nerves. Pure, stomach-twisting, heart-thumping nerves.
The bell over the door jingles softly when I push it open, and a sweet fragrance washes over me—rich cocoa, caramelized sugar, and chocolate melting somewhere in the back kitchen.
Then I see him.
Oliver stands behind the counter, wiping down the marble with a folded towel. Black T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His tattooed forearms flexing as he moves. When he glances up at me, his head tilts slightly as he smiles. It’s soft, warm, and a little too knowing. I nearly turn around and walk back out.
“Hey,” I manage to croak, clutching the two coffees in my trembling hands. “I, uh, brought you a latte. The dark-chocolate mocha you mentioned you like.”
The drink and my silent prayer are a pitiful hope that he forgets I basically climbed him like a tree last night.
He lifts a brow. “Peace offering?”
“A thank you,” I quickly reply. “And maybe a tiny apology. But mostly thank you.”
He sets his kitchen towel aside and comes to the counter. Up close, he’s even more irresistible—tall, solid, smelling faintly of sugar.
“Were you planning to apologize,” he says slowly, “for kissing me?”
My pulse flatlines, then spikes violently. “No!” I squeak. “I mean… yes, but also no. I mean… shit, I don’tknowwhat I mean.” I squeeze my eyes as if that’ll make the embarrassment go away.
A deep laugh rumbles from his chest. “Relax, Princess. I’m teasing.”
I set the latte on the counter harder than intended. “Please stop calling mePrincess. I’m too hungover for that level of flirting.”
“If you were too hungover,” he says, his tone dipping, “you wouldn’t be blushing like that.”
Damn him.
I clear my throat, willing my voice to return. “Did I… did anythingelsehappen? Besides the kiss?”
His smile deepens. “You don’t remember?”
“I remember crying. And talking too much. Way too much.” My face scrunches as I shake my head. “And calling you?—”
The corners of his mouth lift into a boyish grin. “If I remember correctly, you called mehot chocolate daddy.”
I whimper. Actually whimper.
He folds his arms on the counter, leaning in slightly. “You also informed half the bar that I smell delicious.”
