And pull. And pull, because apparently these days they’re closing bags of ground coffee with gorilla glue. I grunt. I grit my teeth and use all my might.
Suddenly, the bag flies open. It tears down one side and launches ground coffee into my face, all over me, and onto the floor.
“Dammit,” I say through clenched teeth.
“There’s scissors in the drawer,” Eli’s voice says behind me.
I whirl around, the coffee grounds beneath my feet making the floor more slippery than usual. He’s standing there, framed by the doorway, that irritating (and hot) half-smile on his face.
My heart thumps stupidly. Something flutters in my stomach-region, and before I know it I’m checking him out for about the thousandth time: dark hair just a little wild, green eyes just a little bit teasing, and a shirt that fits him very well.
Why do all his shirts have to fit him that well?
It’s unprofessional. Can I report him for being too hot at work?
“Thanks,” I say, as sarcastically as I can.
“Rough day?” he asks, shoving his hands into his pockets, eyeing the coffee-grounds-covered floor as he does, leaning against the door frame.
“I’m fine,” I answer reflexively.
“You’re trying to make a giant pot of coffee at nine p.m.”
“That’s just how I party,” I say.
“What happened?”
I sigh. I blow a strand of hair out of my face, then toss the busted coffee package into the sink.
“I screwed up an order with the monks and now I have to fold four hundred and eighty-five origami cranes by tomorrow morning,” I admit.
Eli whistles low, still looking at me.
“Yeah,” I say, brushing coffee off myself.
“All right,” he says, straightening. “Where are you folding?”
“Cumberland conference room.”
He nods once.
“Perfect,” he says, and then walks away.
“It’s not!” I shout after him, confused.
Is he just being a dick? For a minute there I thought he was being nice…
His head pops back around the door frame.
“Don’t make that coffee,” he says, and disappears again.
I frown at the door, then at myself.
“I’ll make coffee if I want to make coffee,” I grumble to myself as I find the dustpan. “I’ll make as much coffee as I want.”Chapter TwentyEliThe coffee cups clink softly as I walk down the dark hallway, carrying the tray. It’s got two full French presses, two coffee mugs with saucers, and a little pitcher of cream for Violet, since I know how she takes her coffee.
Call me Martha Stewart, I guess.
When I enter the conference room, she looks up from a half-finished crane, both hands anchoring opposite corners of it on the table.
“How’s your craft project going?” I ask, setting it on the table.
She looks around. The table is half-covered with cranes, though it’s clear that there aren’t nearly enough.
“I’m in hell,” Violet admits. “I’m not even good at this kind of thing. I’m all thumbs. Adeline tried to teach me to knit once, and I almost accidentally strangled myself on my own yarn.”
I pick up one French press and plunge it, careful to keep the coffee from rushing through the spout.
“Adeline knits?”
“Of course Adeline knits,” sighs Violet. “She also bakes, sews, and can probably even make a Christmas tree look good with that weird fake snow stuff.”
I pour coffee into one mug, then the other, wondering what the story is with Violet and fake snow.
“Though she’s also the one who set me up on that terrible date, so she also has her faults,” Violet goes on, frowning at the paper in front of her, then flipping it over.
“That was Adeline?”
“He was her cousin’s cousin,” Violet says, hands still busy.
“Poor thing,” I say, pouring cream into her mug. I put it back on the saucer, then slide the saucer over to her.
“Me, or her?”
“Her.”
I raise my own mug to my lips and take a long, slow sip. It’s espresso, and it’s slightly stronger than I meant for it to be, but at least it’ll keep us both awake until we finish these birds.
“I’m the one who wound up doing dishes in heels and it’s poor Adeline?” Violet says, and she’s trying to sound stern, but I can tell she’s laughing.
“You can handle being run out on and doing the dishes in heels,” I tease back, sitting opposite her in one of the big leather office chairs. “But I bet Adeline feels really bad.”
Adeline’s always been nice to me. She’s a nurse, for crying out loud. She even had pity on me in high school and invited me to a party.
Violet is, well, Violet. She finishes the crane and grabs her coffee mug.
“I thought our agreement was only for the mornings,” she says.
“This is honoring our other agreement,” I say, grabbing a piece of origami paper and holding it up. I wonder if I still remember how to make paper cranes.
Violet looks up at me, briefly, and I can’t help but remember our kiss again: her lips on mine, needy, urgent. Her arm around my waist. My fingers in her hair.