Tattooed Sweetheart

The interior was washed in pleasing neutral tones, the bistro tables painted gold, the light fixtures these wrought iron designs that drew the eye in an aesthetic manner. On the walls were black-and-white pictures of people drinking coffee, all from different parts of the world, the countries they originated from engraved on little silver plaques under each picture.

One showed two women enjoying espressos on an outside patio, the Eiffel Tower behind them. Another showed two men enjoying Turkish coffee in Ethiopia. Another from Portugal, where a man and a woman sat close together, their tiny espresso cups in hand as laughing children forever frozen in time in the image stood behind them on cobblestone sidewalks.

The front counter—where you’d order—was in the center of the room, the shining silver machines behind said counter hissing and steaming as Flora and her sister worked their fucking magic. And it was magic. The way they moved in sync, as if a unit… the efficiency in how they created the orders in fast yet unhurried motions.

They loved what they did; that was for sure.

There was a short line of customers waiting to order, and I moved behind them, waiting, anxious to get to the front… to see her.

And as I stood there, I felt my heart start to beat a little harder. I could see her, stared at a little tendril of hair that slipped out of her ponytail, the locks blonde, my fingers itching to touch them. I shamelessly checked her out. She wore a thick purple sweater, a pair of ass-hugging jeans that had my cock threatening to grow stiff if my self-control wasn’t locked down. It wouldn't last, of course, not where she was concerned. I popped wood because of her like I was a damn teenager.

Her body was perfect, all womanly, feminine lines, her thighs long and lithe, causing images of them wrapped around my waist as I plowed into her to slam into my mind obscenely. She wore a cream-colored apron, but it didn’t hide the mounds of her breasts as they pressed against the material.

It wasn’t until after the sound came from me, and the person in front of me looking over his shoulder to eye me skeptically, that I realized I growled once again. Fucking growled at those lewd images and thoughts about Flora.

I cleared my throat and gave him a tight-lipped smile, breathing out slowly when he faced forward and moved up in line.

If wanting her, obsessing about her, was a sickness… I never wanted to be healed from it.

2

Flora

“He’s baaack.”

I cut a glance at my sister, Tatum, and although she hadn’t said his name, I knew who she was talking about.

Oh, I know, all right.

“Tatum,” I hissed, letting my annoyance sift through my voice. “Keep your voice down.”

The coffee shop I owned with my sister had been a gamble, especially in the small mountain town of Sweetheart, Colorado. Most of the residents were older, and their caffeine choices included only two. Straight to the point, as in darker than hell and bitter to boot... the kind that put hair on your chest, or having so much cream in it the color was damn near white, coupled with copious amounts of sugar that your teeth hurt after one sip.

But that gamble was—so far—working better than we had ever dreamed.

I worked on making a cappuccino, trying not to stare at him, although I felt his gaze on me. I’d met Malkolm Taylor a couple months back, right around the time Tatum and I opened up the coffee shop. I had this instant attraction to him despite saying only a few professional and friendly words.

The inked-up, big, and muscular guy who owned Broken Hearts Tattoo parlor had come across as a gentle giant to me. Although he’d been a Sweetheart resident for only the last three years, I instantly felt like I’d known him for far longer.

I felt this intense electricity move between us instantly. But I pushed any and all attraction—the first real and only desire I’d ever had toward a man—away, because it wasn’t a priority.

Tatum and I opened up Just One More Cup, because it was a passion of ours. We drained our savings, went against our parents’ wishes and how they thought we were making a mistake and how we’d fail, but for the last couple of months, the coffee shop soared in popularity.

There wasn’t a day that we weren’t packed, the steady flow of bodies making me feel proud that my sister and I had taken that chance and followed through with a dream—a dream to open up our own place together, to be owners of something that was ours.

We were born and bred Sweetheart residents. But I’d always kept to myself, which I guess was why I never really met Malkolm until recently.

Although Tatum was the complete opposite of me socially, her extrovert attitude being the face of the shop, my introvert-self did the behind-the-scenes things with the business aspect of it all. We were this yin and yang, working perfectly together.