Leo Ashford.
He’s wearing jeans this time. Worn ones. A plain white jacket. No stupidly expensive coat. No performance. His hair is damp, like he washed it and didn’t bother styling it. He looks… awake. Alert. Nervous. Human.
“Morning,” he says, voice quiet, careful. “I… sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Gwen looks at me like Christmas came early.
I turn fully, crossing my arms. “You’re late.”
He nods immediately. “Ok. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure. Did I interrupt you? I can come back later. Or… stand very still.”
I blink.
Gwen bites her lip.
I sigh. “You’re already here.”
His shoulders relax just a fraction.
“Shoes,” I tell him. He looks down at his feet. “Cover them. And wash your hands. Properly. At least thirty seconds.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, already moving.
Ma’am. I scowl, but it’s reflexive.
Gwen leans in, stage whispering, “He’s trained.”
“So are dogs,” I mutter.
He reappears moments later, sleeves rolled up, hands red from scrubbing. He stops at a respectful distance.
“So,” he says. “I know you said you’d think about it.”
“I did.”
He nods. “I’m here,” he says. “If that’s ok. If not, I’ll go.”
I study him. Really look.
No charm offensive. No pitch. No desperation disguised as confidence. Just… presence. Annoyingly decent presence.
I jerk my chin toward the prep table. “Grab a scraper. Don’t touch anything unless Gwen tells you to.”
His mouth curves into a careful smile. “Yes, boss.”
Gwen’s eyes sparkle.
I turn on my heel and stalk to the back room, yanking the door open hard enough that the hinge complains. I grab a spare apron from a hook, not one of the clean fronted ones the baristas wear when they’re smiling at customers and pretending our lives aren’t held together with tape and caffeine.
This apron is stiff. Ugly. Canvas. Dyed a hideous beige that looks like despair, with a permanent mystery stain on the front that could be raspberry jam or motor oil. Possibly both. It has the texture of something that has seen things and will see more.
I shove it into his chest.
His hands fumble. The coarse, stained canvas looks obscene against his pristine white jacket.
“You’re here,” I say, low and controlled, my voice vibrating like a machine trying not to shake apart. “The dare is for a month. My business is not your reality show. My kitchen is not your playground. My life is not a joke.”
His eyes go wide. He nods once, sharply. He looks like he’s actually listening.
