“I don’t know. That bottle redhead just got a massive contract with Nuvéa. She’s not doing anything half-assed.”
“We respect the hustle.”
I do begrudgingly respect the hustle, even if she’s after the target of my delusional longing. More sighing.
“You have a stalker. You’re very happy with your stalker. He can flirt with those girls if he wants to and spend money. Look, he’s offering to buy them all drinks. More money in your pocket.”
All the modelesque girls in my café pose on the cute café chairs, batting their fake eyelashes up at The Guy. I feel sick remembering the one time I tried that with Logan Buckley and the entire school laughed.
I sink back down behind the counter.
“I still think it’s your weirdo neighbor. Did you change your locks yet?”
“I’m like ninety percent sure it’s my weirdo neighbor, but I’m at that point in my thirties where if a guy wants to break into my house, do my laundry, and leave me home-cooked meals in individual portions, I’m cool with that.”
Carolina grimaces.
“He cleaned my bathroom,” I protest. “I’m not locking him out.”
“He probably did it because he jacked off in your shampoo.”
“To be fair, my hair has never been better.”
Suddenly, the smell of fresh-baked pastries is overwhelmed by the scent of cedar smoke and the masculine musk—Carolina hates that word—that I’ve come to associate with The Guy. My crush. My unattainable prize.
Do I stand up? Meet his eyes?Gasp—greet him?
Or just stay down here with my friend where it’s safe?
Carolina’s already crawling away.
“Traitor,” I hiss.
Maybe that’s the move. It’s not like he’s going to notice me. He’s too busy flirting with my latest part-time college worker who is on the rich-dad scholarship at the local uni, where she’s phoning it in on her MRS degree.
I’ve spent the past month trying to train Olive. She should know how to work the point-of-sale system. And yet…
“Um?” Olive looks down at me. She giggles. “I can’t remember how to ring the orders up, Winnie.”
I sigh, clear my throat, and dust off my plain black pants, hem folded to show off my sturdy Crocs.
I am a business owner. I am a grown adult woman in her thirties. I own a house. I have a dog. Really, a dog and a half.
Fidget grumbles.
I am not an insecure teenage girl. I will not let this man intimidate me just because he has that fancy black credit card he’s idly spinning in hands that I crave all over me.
I straighten my shoulders. I, too, have a credit card with a large limit. I was an investment banker, after all. I didn’t sell my soul for peanuts.
“Sorry for the inconvenience.” I give him a strained smile. “We’re still in the training period here.” I busy myself with tapping the correct operation into the iPad so I don’t have to look at the intense pools of his gray eyes.
I usually try to hide in the back and peek through the door to watch him when he comes in. Now I’m front and center and he is staring. At. Me.
I can feel Carolina sending meFlirt with himthought waves.
I ignore them. “What was your order, sir?”
Those slate-gray eyes shift to Olive—and the low-cut tank top she’s wearing.
