No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

“If it’s Felicity-branded, how can I resist?” I chuckle. “Also, we’ve got a rule here. If you’re making coffee, you earned breakfast. I insist.”

Felicity’s smile sinks.

She looks at me uncertainly, darting her eyes away, tucking her hair behind her ear with her fingers curved so lightly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose, I just—”

“You’re not imposing. Stay,” I finish for her.

I want to yank that idea right the hell out of her head right now.

No matter the rumors, no matter what the fuck people say about her or what they’ve made her believe, I’m not judging her.

My opinion begins and ends with the woman she’s shown me from my first hurried coffee runs into her place for the crew. Now I see one who’s warm, caring, smart, thoughtful, willing to risk herself to save a kid who isn’t even her own. That’s the Felicity Randall I’ve met.

That Felicity Randall is welcome around me anytime.

Just to put her pride at ease, I grin and say, “I told you. You earned it. We’re trading services here. My cooking for your coffee.”

She still looks uneasy, and I wonder again what’s brought her to my doorstep. Somehow, I don’t think it’s a neighborly chat when we’re not proper neighbors—never mind small-town hospitality.

After a moment she nods and a small, troubled smile flickers over her lips. “Okay, deal. Give me a second, and I’ll bring in the grounds. The French press should be in the second cabinet above the sink.”

“I’ll get it washed out and ready for you.”

She only nods and gives Eli a warmer smile before turning and slipping out. I watch through the window while she pops the trunk of her car and then disappears behind it.

I tear myself away and focus on rummaging around in the cabinets for the—oh. Yep. There it is. I think?

This thing looks like it should be used for pressing something with this disc on a stick inside the large glass cylinder.

Look, I know how good coffee tastes.

I’ll leave the mechanics to the experts.

It’s a little dusty, but a quick rinse in the sink and a wipe with a towel has it gleaming good as new. By the time I set it down on the counter, Felicity’s already letting herself back in, fingers plucking at the little tabs sealing a tight-packed bag of grounds closed.

The moment it opens, the scent of nirvana fills the room, bursting into every corner—earthy, rich, dark, nutty. I take in a deep breath, flaring my nostrils.

“Damn, that smells divine.”

Felicity ducks her head, and a faint flush warms her cheeks until she’s nearly glowing. “It’s a hazelnut-caramel roast,” she says, giving me a dry look. “I know your order. You have a sweet tooth sometimes. Figured I’d go for a sweeter blend.”

“Pretty unique. Most people add their flavoring in after.”

“Yep. I wanted to try something new. Something different.” She starts to venture past the island and into the kitchen, then pauses with a questioning gesture, only to step farther inside a second later, passing me in a whiff of coffee, sweetness, and something deliciously Felicity as she moves to the French press. “Most of the time beans are mass-roasted for distribution. I’m distributing, too, but since I’m making small batches, I can afford to experiment. And most of my sales go to a candy shop and its spinoff café in Chicago, so I thought maybe people coming in for candy would appreciate something sweeter.”

I appreciate her sweetness, all right.

There’s this certain way she talks about her handiwork as she fills the kettle on the stove, her voice so soft, her eyes lowered, care in every word and every action.

It’s the same way I imagine you’d hear a master artisan talk about their craft, from a fine crafter of violins to a gifted painter.

Frankly, it’s beautiful.

I’ve always thought you can put that kind of love into anything you make, no matter how small or mundane it might seem. It’s clear Felicity has.

It’s also awfully clear I’m staring at her again like my eyes have no chill.

Good thing she’s busy with the coffee.

I clear my throat and get myself together, jerking my gaze from her face to her hands so I can at least look like I’m interested in the process and not just her.

“So you grind your own beans, too?”

“Mm-hmmm.” It comes out absent, murmured, as she leaves the kettle to simmer and then does some arcane thing to the French press that makes it come apart in neat pieces. “I bag and sell whole beans for the purists who want to grind their own. Grinding them makes them lose flavor, so it’s better if you buy whole beans and only grind when you’re ready to use them. But not everyone has time for that, or cares enough to bother.” She smiles ruefully and shrugs. “These were just ground and bagged last night, so they’re still strong.”