I wash my hands quickly, and as I step out into the shop, the familiar buzz of activity greets me. Before I can properly take in the scene, a loud clattering noise erupts from the back, echoing through the space. My head snaps toward the sound.
“Ach! Sorry, Lou!” I turn to see one of our regulars kneeling on the floor, surrounded by the debris of a broken mug.
“No worries, Shane,” I call back. “We’ll get that cleaned up, and I’ll grab you another one.”
I glance over at Michael, who’s already starting to head to the back for a broom. “Would you mind taking care of that? I’ll hold down the fort up here.”
He nods without a word, and I return my focus to the counter, making sure everything is running as it should. The usual sounds of laughter, clinking cups, and the soft hiss of the espresso machine surround me, but then there’s something else. A low, deep rumble of a voice I don’t recognize drifts in from outside, and my head lifts to the front window like it’s been tugged by a string. And then I see him.
He’s…a lot.
Tall, broad shouldered, and soaked from the rain like the universe just dropped him off here gift-wrapped in storm clouds and brooding energy. His damp jacket clings to his frame as he steps through the threshold like he’s not entirely convinced he wants to be indoors. The cold air follows him in, curling around my ankles.
He doesn’t look at anyone. Just heads straight to the counter with a look that saysdon’t start with me, and for some reason, I really, really want to start with him.
He steps up to the counter, his gray eyes sweeping the menu. A tiny crease tugs between his brows—focused, unaware he’s already caught my attention. He has lines around his eyes, but not in a tired way. More in a…been through it kind of way. Mid-thirties, maybe? A full decade older than me, if I had to guess. He’s not the buttoned-up, office job kind of thirty something, though. No… This guy looks like he builds things with his hands and breaks them when he’s mad.
I press my palm flat against the counter to ground myself and clear my throat. “Welcome in! What can I get you?”
His eyes snap to mine, and I forget how to breathe.
“Coffee. Black. To go.”
Each word lands with weight, like conversation is a currency he’s not willing to spend. Still, there’s something in the way he says it, something rough around the edges that scrapes against my skin and leaves a mark.
I nod, already moving. “Coming right up.”
As I turn, I feel his eyes on me. Not a glance, not a casual once-over. This is full-on attention. It prickles along the back of my neck, curling low in my stomach in a way that feels both wrong and wildly right.
I set the cup down in front of him. “On the house,” I say, a little breathless. “Looks like you could use it.”
For a second, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lifts those stormy gray eyes to mine and quirks a brow.
“I…sorry. You don’t lookbador anything. Just…tired, maybe? And…damp?”
Oh god, I’m just digging this hole deeper. I’m usually fantastic with small talk. Why does he have me so flustered?
He finally offers a subtle nod, putting me out of my misery before he says, “Thanks.”
That’s it. No smile. Just his rough, deep voice twisting through my insides like smoke. That voice is doing…inconvenient things to me.
He wraps both hands around the takeaway cup, his focus dropping to the swirl of steam rising from the lid. I linger long enough to feel silly about it until I realize I’m just standing there like I forgot how to be a functioning human.
“Right. Well, enjoy!” I blurt, my voice pitching higher than I want it to, cheeks heating.Smooth, Lou. Olympic-level grace, right there.
He turns as if he’s going to walk out, then comes to a halt. His attention snags on the stack of flyers by the till, colorful and slightly crooked.
His eyes narrow slightly, and he reaches for one with a hesitant hand. “Can I take one?”
“Oh! Absolutely!” I yank the top flyer off the pile with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. The corner catches on the rest, and a few of the flyers flutter to the floor like confetti. “Here,” I add quickly, pressing the flyer into his hand before dropping to my knees to scoop up the mess.
By the time I straighten, he’s already studying the flyer, his rough fingers tracing the edges of the paper. For a split second, I let myself really look at him. His dark hair peeks out from under a beanie, just enough to hint at the unruly wavesbeneath. The scruff on his jaw is a few days old, adding to the rugged charm that practically radiates off him.
Just when I think I’ve let myself stare a little too long, he moves again. A slight tilt of his head, like he’s genuinely interested in the flyer. He glances up at me, voice quieter this time, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it or if there’s something softer in his tone.
“Kids’ night?”
“Yep.” My brain’s still struggling to catch up, but at least my voice doesn’t crack this time. “First one’s tomorrow. Should be fun. I mean, for the kids. And, uh, hopefully the adults, too.”
