One Bossy Dare

“Not really. Before I took this job, I bounced around a lot of coffee shops, studying their flavors and menus. I picked up a few shifts when Wayne was short on people, but nothing too official. We’d talk about coffee whenever I went to Wired Cup, and we’ve hung out occasionally at charity events together...”

Is it bad that I like the jealousy gleaming in his eyes?

“That’s a relief. You can do better than him,” Cole snaps. “What the hell sort of boyfriend only shows up part-time?”

I laugh. “Behave. Wayne isn’t my boyfriend. He’s not even my type.”

He turns his head, raking me with a slow, burning look.

“What, pray tell, is your type, Eliza?”

Oh. My. God.

I ignore the question, but I’m sure he finds his answer with the way I jerk away, staring intently at the brew pipe.

I touch the end to make sure it’s cooled, then put the pipe end to my mouth and languidly sip half the shot. My head rolls back and I purse my lips like I’m enjoying a fine cigar.

“Man, that’s on point. I added a hint of macadamia nut to the roast.” I pass the pipe. “Try this.”

He tilts it in his fingers like he’s holding an alien device.

“Careful. It’s still hot. Go ahead, taste the nuts,” I urge.

“No need. You are nuts, Eliza Angelo.” But he shuts up long enough to suck a long pull from the pipe.

The way his eyes ignite with stunned pleasure tells me he’s about to swallow his pride.

“Well?” I venture.

“Good. Surprisingly smooth. I never imagined I’d enjoy sucking coffee through a damn crack pipe, however...”

“Coffee pipe, you idiot,” I insist with a giggle.

“Whatever, badger.” He leans back on the sand, casually draping his arm around me.

My face heats.

At first, I make no effort to move, but then when I see he doesn’t pull back like he’s realizing his mistake, I scoot closer.

We sit there, sharing the stillness, alone except for the murmuring waves and my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

My boss has his arm around me.

My hot, unhinged, tightly wound boss who seems too smart to complicate our lives.

Even with the fresh caffeine hit, my brain keeps stuttering, trying to process what we’re doing. His seductive, masculine scent doesn’t help when it smells a thousand times better than the finest fresh-brewed coffee.

“You never answered my question,” he says. “If Wayne isn’t your type, then why are you so serious about coffee? I thought for sure it was the barista’s influence...”

“Honestly, I’m not sure I have a type,” I lie. Because unfortunately, I do, and it’s totally Cole Lancaster. “No time to date much.”

His jaw sets and he sighs. “Damn shame. You’re young and pretty and you have an annoying sense of humor. Men should be lined up at your door holding grudge matches to take you out—then again, are there still men in the age of Tinder? Can’t imagine sending pickup lines over a screen.”

What the what? He thinks I’m pretty?

My giddy heart vibrates like a plucked guitar string.

And I can’t help but laugh. He’s not that old, but his ideas about dating are hilariously old.

I’m starting to believe his love life is more boring than mine.

“Could be because I don’t know that many people in Seattle,” I say carefully. “I’ve lived there a few years, but it’s harder to meet people as an adult.”

“I get it. No time to pull yourself away from the bean.”

“Right.” My face turns redder with every lie.

“You never told me why you’re a coffee freak.”

I look over and he’s so close, his face mere inches from mine.

Close enough to see the imperfections on a person’s face, but Cole has zero. No scars, no lines, no deceit swirling in his eyes.

Just good, honest grumpy bossman who sometimes lets his storminess fade to distant thunder.

Seeing him this close renders me breathless. I think he takes my silence as hesitation.

He smiles warmly. “No judgment. If anyone should take coffee so seriously, it’s me. I just can’t muster the same spark. Not like you, so I’m curious.”

“My obsession actually started with a prank when I was seven...” I say slowly, unsure if I want to tell him this story. But he makes me weirdly comfortable when we’re lounging like this.

“Seven? You were already addicted as a first grader?”

Laughing, I nod. “Not like you think, but...it’s a sad story. My dad and I liked to prank each other all the time, so one day I emptied the sugar holder on the kitchen table and filled it with salt. My dad came home from work, started the coffee pot—which was strange because he usually only had his coffee in the morning—and slumped down at the table with a steaming cup. He put five heaping teaspoons of salt in his coffee and took a big drink—”

Cole snorts. “I suppose he didn’t appreciate your early experiments.”