Page 17 of Hollow Forest

Or maybe my brain wanted to play tricks on me.

“Sure thing,” I said with a smile. “What’s the name for the order?”

He pulled a twenty from his pocket and dropped it on the counter. “Joey is fine.”

Joey….

It didn’t fit. Joey was a goofy Italian boy from the city. Someone who smiled easily and had a heart of gold. But this man moved with a direct purpose, and I had yet to see a grin crack across his face.

“Keep the change,” he added and moved away to take a seat in the back of the café.

Part of me wanted to make the sugariest, most obnoxious drink I could manage. Maybe even top it off with a spiced doughnut. But deep down, I knew he wouldn’t like it. He probably drank coffee black. And he’d been working hard to make the rental property nice.

No…the whole crew had worked hard.

But he’s been taking extra care.

I began a shot of espresso and flicked a glance in his direction. Sure, he was large. But if he wore a ski mask, would he be large enough? I shook my head and began to steam the milk. While I liked the way his jeans fit snuggly across his backside, I didn’t have the same rush that I felt when I sat across the kitchen from my stalker.

The same stalker who I’d spent the whole morning refusing to think about.

I finished the cappuccino with a dash of cinnamon and carried it on a saucer to the far table. I passed Ivry as she came out of the kitchen. She gave me a bright smile and wiped her forehead.

“You can take a break after you drop that off,” she told me.

“Thanks,” I chirped.

Weaving through the tables, I carried the drink to its destination. The moment I felt the handyman’s focus slide to me, the mug rattled violently on the saucer. I slowed my steps and took a deep breath.

Joey dwarfed the wooden chair. His arm tossed over the back of the seat next to him, and his black gaze pinned me. That attention made me a touch self-conscious.

Shit…what if he didn’t like the drink?

Too bad. He should have ordered something specific.

“Here you go!”

Joey didn’t glance at the mug as I set it down. “Thank you.”

His intense gaze was too much.

“Welcome!” And with that, I skedaddled out of there.

Rushing behind the safety of the counter, I realized I was breathing hard. A whole lot harder than when I hiked back to the cottage. The distance between the table and workstation was a teeny, tiny fraction of the three-mile walk.

“I’m going to take my break,” I announced and fled to the kitchen. There was a slice of bread with some cold cuts waiting for me. In my mad rush this morning, I hadn’t put cheese or any condiments on it. Grabbing the container—a to-go box I was reusing from the café since the house didn’t come with Tupperware—I went to sit on some crates out back.

“Sam? Did you serve a cappuccino?” Ivry asked through the door, which hadn’t shut behind me.

I balanced the Styrofoam box on my knees. “Yeah, why?”

“Oh no,” she gasped and darted back inside.

My stomach flipped and knotted. “He didn’t order anything.”

But I was talking to myself.

Sighing, I could go inside and figure out what the heck I’d done wrong. Or I could take my fifteen minutes and stuff my piehole so that I wasn’t hangry for the rest of my shift.