Tyler Reid.
He’s tall, easily six-three. Broad shoulders that fill out his black Army PT shirt in a way that should be illegal. Dark hair cut military-short. Sharp jawline shadowed with stubble. Sometimes he’s clean shaven, other times he’s not. And eyes the color of storms that seem to see straight through me every single time.
My heart does its usual stupid flutter it does every single morning when he walks in. And he does walk in every morning. Well just about. Sometimes, he goes a week or two, even longer without and I wonder if he’s moved and then he just reappears. I figure he’s off in the field or whatever the soldiers call it when they go out of town for work trips.
"Morning," I say, proud that my voice sounds normal instead of breathless.
"Morning." His voice is deep. Rough. Like he hasn’t fully awoken yet.
He approaches the counter, and I'm hyper-aware of every detail. The way he moves with controlled precision. The slightlimp he tries to hide, an old injury, I'm guessing. The wedding ring tan line that he had the first time he came in, well over a year ago, has finally faded completely from his left hand.
A regular caught me staring the first time he’d come in and let me know he was recently divorced with two kids who live with their mom in Texas while he's stationed here. Her husband works with Tyler and she had all the dirt. He’s Special Forces, so doesn’t have to follow the same grooming standards. Comes and goes with little notice, she’d said. I told her I wasn’t interested. Not at all. He’s not my type, I’d assured her.
Besides, I justified to myself, he’s off-limits in every possible way. She didn’t seem convinced, probably because I was lying straight to her face. I was interested. Very interested. Not brave enough to act on it, though.
"The usual?" I ask.
"Please."
The usual is a large Americano, extra shot, room for cream. He's ordered the same thing every single morning for the past year. He’ll add just a splash of heavy cream to it before walking out.
I turn to make his drink, acutely conscious of him watching me. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch, tracking my movements as I pull the espresso shots.
"Busy morning?" he asks.
I glance over my shoulder, surprised. He rarely makes small talk.
"Getting there. Friday mornings are always hectic."
"Makes sense and it’s payday."
I finish his coffee and turn back to hand it to him. Our fingers brush as he takes the cup, and electricity shoots up my arm.
His eyes flick to mine. Hold for just a beat too long.
Did he feel it too?
"Thanks, Chloe." He says my name like he's tasting it. Testing how it feels in his mouth. I don’t remember him ever saying my name before. He’s always polite, says please and thank you, but has never used my name. I like the way it sounds coming from him.
"You're welcome." I manage a smile. "Have a good run."
"You too. I mean—" He stops. Clears his throat. "Have a good morning."
Is he flustered? Tyler Reid, the stoic soldier who never shows emotion, is flustered?
"Thanks," I say softly.
He nods and heads for the door. But before he leaves, he glances back. Just once. Our eyes meet again, and something passes between us.
Then he's gone.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Girl, you've got it bad."
I spin around to find my assistant manager, Jess, leaning against the espresso machine with a knowing grin.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I lie.
