The man’s gaze swings to my right, and I turn to follow it to the antique espresso maker sitting on the counter. The machine gleams, silently judging my lack of barista skills. “Oh, right.”
The bell rings again and three more guys walk in. They’re all wearing dark coats and have the same dark and gorgeous Mediterranean features as the first guy. Are Dolce and Gabbana doing a photoshoot outside?
The four guys look so similar, if they’re not brothers, they’ve got to be cousins. The first one at the counter staring at me is the most beautiful of them all. And he’s still got his whole attention on me, looking like he’s hungry and I’m a sugar-dusted donut.
My blush starts at my nipples and starts rolling slowly up my cleavage—which is on display. Thanks to the heat of the ovens, I peeled off my sweater and am only wearing a white camisole. And tomorrow’s laundry day, so I’m down to my last, most ridiculous lacy bra. Pink, of course. Luckily, the cami is thick enough to conceal everything, but the bright straps are showcased on my shoulders. The blast of cold air that tailed the customers makes my nipples spring to points.
“Right,” I say. “I'll just get you that, then…” I turn and knock another cup off the counter. This one I catch and clutch carefully as I walk over to my new nemesis. My expression, mirrored in the polished chrome, is full of dismay. I hope the customer can't see my reflection.
The three domes on top are like miniature replicas of St. Peter’s basilica. Ornate and just as intimidating. One dome is labeled:Cappuccino.
“A cappuccino?” I ask, reaching for the level hopefully.
“No,principessa.Only an espresso.”
Rats.
Between customers this morning, Mr. Rossi and I figured out how to turn this thing on. I push a button and jump assteam hisses out. Maybe there is a steamer attachment—good for steaming milk.
“Whoops,” I say. “Not that one.” I pull out the metal thingy, add the freshly ground beans, and tamp them down. I wedge the metal thingy holding the espresso grounds back in and push a different button. A green light comes on.
Then the entire machine starts shaking like it's going to blast off of the countertop. It's the espresso-making cousin of Howl's Moving Castle.
“We just got this espresso maker,” I shout cheerfully over my shoulder. I keep my face calm, as if everything is normal.Fake it till you make it.
The men by the door smirk at each other, but the man at the front still hasn't taken his eyes off me. There’s a prickle on the back of my neck when I turn.
“Come on, come on,” I murmur to the machine. “You can do it.”
Just when I've given up hope, there's a hiss, and a squirt of unappetizing brown liquid into the paper cup. It smells sort of coffee-ish.
Thanking the coffee shop gods for their continued good favor,I take the paper cup back to the customer and set it in front of him. The four men in front of the counter regard it.
“I’m more of a tea person, really,” I say to fill the silence. My blush has reached the crests of my cheeks and is in the process of unfurling like twin red flags in front of a bull.
The beautiful man says nothing but picks up the cup and, with more bravery than I've seen in a long time, tosses it back. The room is still as he slowly sets the cup back down.
“It's good,” he lies through his teeth.
I wrinkle my nose at him.
“Looks like brown water,” one of his friends jokes, and something in the man’s dark brown eyes goes icy. From nice andamiable to full of cold anger. His jaw clenches. “Out,” he orders without turning.
To my surprise, the men on either side of him—his brothers or cousins or whatever—straighten, and march out the door. The bell jingles in their wake.
I gulp a breath, meeting the beautiful man’s gaze. It's us alone in the room. Just me, and the man I served sad brown water.
“I'm sorry,” I say, gesturing to the evil machine. “It's brand new… well, brand new to us. We just got it, and a couple of the pieces fell off.” I reach down, grab the box, and show him the contents.
He leans over to study the box of parts. A pause, and he nods. “Right.”
To my surprise, he swings off his coat and lays it on the counter. His friends are still waiting outside the door, their backs to the bakery. One blows on his fingers as if to warm them, but they seem content to stand outside the shop. As ordered.
Weird.
The beautiful man has gone to the door and flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed.’
“What are you doing?” I squeak.
