“Making an espresso,” he says, catching my gaze and holding it as he undoes his onyx and silver cufflinks. He sets them down and rolls up the sleeves of his luxurious dress shirt.
Why is he undressing? Not that I’m complaining.
He keeps talking, his smooth voice rich as espresso. Well-made espresso.
“Mia ziahad a machine like this,” he says. “It broke and I fixed it. I’m good at fixing things. It made me her favorite nephew.” His right cheek creases for a moment and I catch sight of a dimple. Goodness gracious. Model stunning looks and then a dimple.
I go to fan myself and knock over another paper cup.
“Sorry,” I mumble. “Durn things… always in the way.”
The beautiful man is behind the counter now. I don’t know what’s happening, but I do know his dark eyes are the color of bitter chocolate.
“You have sugar…” He holds my eyes as he gestures to my front, and I look down in horror. I've gotten powdered sugar all over my front. My breasts look like the snow-speckled twin peaks of Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Oh!” I try to dust it off and end up smearing sugar everywhere. Now my breasts just look glazed.
The customer tilts his head. He’s looking into my eyes, not at my breasts. I’ll give him points for that. “Allow me,” he mutters, nodding his head towards the espresso maker.
On autopilot, I step out of the way. There’s something about him that makes me want to follow his orders. Or maybe I just want to study him from the back.
And what a sexy backside he has. A firm ass in sleek black slacks. There’s a hint of expensive cologne swirling around me. Not too much, not unpleasant. I lean in closer before I realize I’m sniffing him.
Luckily, he doesn’t notice. He takes the box and approaches the recalcitrant machine. Implements clatter as he starts removing and reattaching random tubes and metal protrusions. I hover at his shoulder, my hands helpless at my sides.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. “Your friends are outside…” The three men are standing on the snowy sidewalk, their hands shoved in the pockets of their dark coats. They look bored and cold.
“They'll wait,” he says, and bangs on the side of the machine so hard, I jump.
“Easy,principessa,” he murmurs.Principessameansprincess. I know that much from working here.
What I don’t know is why he’s calling me ‘princess.’ Or why my fingers are itching to bury themselves in the stranger’s thick, black hair.
“This is Stefanos’ territory,” he says while he works. “Does he give you any trouble?”
“I don't think so…” Stefanos? Have I heard that name before? “Mr. Rossi owns the building, so there's no landlord.”
“Hmm.” He pauses in his work to reach into a pocket, and hands me a black business card. “If you have any trouble, you call me.”
Okaaay.I study the card. ‘Royal Regis’ is all it says, along with a single number. A cell number?
“Royal Royal,” I say, becauseRegismeans something likeroyalin Latin.
“Yes?” His lip crooks upward, giving me a flash of white teeth.
“That's your name?”
“My parents had high hopes.” He shrugs. His hair flops in his face and gives him a boyish look. “And you are Leah.”
“What?” I say, startled that he knows my name. He must have read it on the damn tip jar. “Um, yes.”
“Lovely,” he says softly, before returning to work. I blush all over again.
A few minutes later, he’s re-arranged the levers and reattached the missing hoses, all while I mostly stood around and ogled his ass.
Then he tugs me in front of him, positioning me at the machine with him at my back. He’s big, much bigger than I am. The sleek lines of his suit disguised his broad shoulders, but I feel them as he reaches around me, guiding my hand in the correct pattern. First, we put fresh grounds in the metal thingy and then attach it to the correct spot. His hand is warm on mine.His fresh cologne surrounds me, blending with the scent of the coffee grounds.
“Now, Leah,” he orders, and a thrill runs up my spine. His breath warms the back of my neck.
