“This button,” he instructs, pressing it with me. “And pull this.” We pull the lever together. “E presto…”
The machine hums—nothing like last time’s shuddering dramatics. A rich brown fluid shoots out and fills the cup. It smells divine.
He holds my eyes as he takes the cup and sips. “Perfetto,”he pronounces. Still looking right at me, he presses the cup to my lips. “Taste,” he orders. My mouth opens. I’m not really a coffee person, but the smooth liquid is dark and sinful on my tongue.
“Oh,” I breathe. “That’s good.”
“Si.” We’re standing so close together, our faces are inches apart.
“How did you do that?” I whisper like we’re trading secrets.
“I have a way with women,” he says. “She's a woman, no?”
“Sure,” I agree, because I'd agree with anything he says.
“Beautiful women just need to be touched the right way. And I am an expert.” He looks at me through his long black lashes.
Is he flirting? With me?
Naw. “Yes, well, it makes sense,” I blurt. “You're very handsome.” I clap a hand over my mouth so I stop talking, and back up until I bump into the counter. The rest of the cups fall and bounce off the floor.
Oh well.I'll tell Mr. Rossi to take the cost of the cups out of my pay.
A slow smile spreads across his face. He looks like the devil about to make a deal. “You've got some sugar right there.” He points to my cheek. I rub the back of my hand over my cheek. My blush makes my skin hot to the touch, like I have roasting coals in my face.
“Here.” He slowly raises a hand and swipes his thumb across my cheek. Holding my gaze, he licks his thumb. “Sweet,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. I'm not sure why my brain has completely scampered out the door.Say something!“So… your aunt liked espresso?”
“Mmm.” He looks amused, like he knows I’m fumbling for something to continue our conversation. “But not for breakfast. She liked tea—like you. Every morning, she’d have a cup, and into it she would dipun biscotto.A cookie.”
“Biscotti!” I brighten. Cookies, I can talk about. Cookies, I know. “I was going to make a few of those for the espresso. And…” I snatch up the cookbook. “There's another cookie here that looks interesting.” I flip through the sauce-spattered pages until I find the right recipe. “Chocolate and hazelnut…”
“Strazzate,” he says at the same time as I try to pronounce the Italian word and butcher it.
“Strazzate,” I repeat, trying to trill the ‘r’ and give the word the same melodic lilt that he gave it. “It sounds delicious.”
The words catch in my throat as I glance at him. He's leaning over me now, hands planted on the counter top on either side of me, head close to mine. The cookbook is sandwiched between us, pressing against my boobs. “If you make mestrazzate,” he murmurs into my ear while the hair on my neck rises, “I will marry you.”
Oh dear. My hand trembles and there's a loud rip. “Oh dear,” I say out loud. I’ve completely torn the recipe out of the book. RIP, page forty-three. I turn slowly and he moves back to give me space—but not much. “I guess I'll have to make it now.” I wave the torn scrap of the recipe between us like a white flag of surrender.
Royal’s looking at me like I'm a cookie he wants to take a bite out of. “Mia ziatold me if I ever found a woman who is beautiful and bakesstrazzate,I should make her my wife.”
I scrunch my nose. “That’s not a very high criterion, is it?”
He chuckles. “It is harder to find such a woman than you might think.”
“Well, I'm sure you'll find someone,” I chirp. “Itisspecific… you could put it on your dating profile.”
Royal shakes his head and gently tugs the recipe out of my hand.
“You make these, Leah, I’ll make you my wife.”
Oh, I do like my name on his tongue.
“Shouldn't be hard,” I whisper.
His chuckle is rich and dark. My toes curl.
