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“Iced pumpkin spice latte.” Kira counts the ingredients on her fingers. “Extra pumpkin, extra whipped cream, and cinnamon on top.”

“No.”

“And caramel,” She adds

“Absolutely not,” I reply, shaking my head.

Her smile widens, and I feel something warm in my chest. That smile is trouble. It's also the first thing I picture when I'm alone at night and the house is too quiet—something I hate admitting.

“Could you put one of those cute little heart designs on top?” She asks, resting her chin on her folded hands.

“It’s whipped cream,” I point out,

“Use your imagination.” Kira’s eyes sparkle with mischief.

“I’m thirty-five, Kira. I have better things to do,” I remind her—or maybe I'm reminding myself.

She looks deliberately around the nearly empty shop then back at me. “Clearly.” She sweeps her gaze over the empty tables, and Heather bursts out laughing.

“Get in the back,” I tell Heather, pointing toward the kitchen.

“This is my shop, too,” she protests, bracing a hand against the counter.

“Then find something useful to do.”

“Watching Kira torment you is more fun.” Heather grins, her gaze shifting between Kira and me.

“I don’t torment him,” Kira says, widening her eyes in exaggerated innocence.

“You flirt with me every damn morning.”

“Maybe you’re just that irresistible.” Kira’s expression turns serious, and my hand stills on the rag. She says things like that all the time—that's the problem. I never know if she's joking. I can tell her what to do about a dozen everyday things, but I can't bring myself to say the one thing that matters. I'm afraid she'll hear how serious I am and think I've mistaken a few flirtatious moments for something more. But every time she looks at me without a joke, I wonder whether she's waiting for that honesty. Worse, I know exactly how much I wish she weren't.

I toss the rag into the sink. “One ridiculous pumpkin drink coming up.”

“Thank you, grumpy.” Kira’s smile softens.

“Don't call me grumpy,” I grumble, trying to concentrate on her drink instead of how fast my heart is racing.

“Bossy?” She offers, tipping her head.

“No,” I answer, trying not to smile.

“Mountain man?” She tries again.

“No,” I repeat.

“Sexy coffee tyrant?” She asks, savoring each word.

My head snaps toward her, only to find her smiling even wider, while Heather makes a choking noise behind me. “Behave,” I tell Kira, lowering my voice.

Something flashes in her eyes. “Make me.” Kira leans in slightly, causing my cock to turn to steel—another side effect of being around Kira.

I turn away before she can see how much those two words affect me. Eleven years separate us. Eleven years and a lifetime of reasons to keep my distance. She's young, bright, and fearless. I've spent most of my adult life taking care of everyone else. My sisters needed me after our parents died. The coffee shop needed me. The house needed me. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about what I needed. Then Kira started coming in every morning. Apparently, what I need is a tattoo artist with a sharp tongue and no concern for boundaries.

I make her drink—extra pumpkin, extra whipped cream, cinnamon, and caramel. And because I'm apparently a complete idiot, I drizzle a crooked heart on top. When I set it in front of her, she stares at it, then at me.

“You made me a heart.” Kira studies the caramel swirl.