“You saw me come in?”
“Yes.” At least, I was fairly certain I had. I’d looked up from my notes, silently quizzing myself when she’d walked in. Unless it’d been another blonde woman tall enough to wear flats with a power suit. “I think—”
“I don’t have time for this. My name’s Joan, that’s close to George, so it must be mine,” she said in one long breath and walked away with my drink.
But my name was closer. Make my presence known. I knew what Luciano was thinking. Now, three people had cut me in line before nine in the morning, and that was especially bad today of all days when I needed to be on point.
As she exited the café, Luciano placed a new drink on the counter. “Skinny mocha latte.”
“Skinny? Are you kidding?” I made a face. “Does it at least have two-percent milk?”
“Non-fat.”
I groaned. “Whipped cream?”
“Nope. And the mocha sauce is sugar-free.”
“Lu,” I whined. “I can’t drink this garbage.”
Luciano took a cup from the register and started the next order. “Well, I made a regular one and even added extra whipped cream for your big day, but you let someone else take it.” He shrugged. “Should’ve spoken up.”
He was punishing me, but it wasn’t as if I hadn’t tried to convince her it was mine. “She didn’t give me a chance. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because she was right. There was no George around.” He stopped and looked at me. “If a colleague of yours waltzed in right now and demanded she give your presentation today, would you roll over and let her?” With a sigh to let me know I’d disappointed him, he leaned over the counter and took the skinny drink back. “I’ll remake this,” he said, disappearing behind an espresso machine.
“I just don’t want to start my day with confrontation,” I called after him. “Especially today.”
“Nobody does,” he yelled back. “But if Georgina doesn’t respect herself, why should anyone else?”
Respect wasn’t an issue—at work. I was a fixer, and a damn good one. When I walked into a failing media company, I joined the team and guided them toward solutions. Yet when my ex had been struggling to finish school with a full-time job, Georgina had been persuaded to shoulder the burden. How could I argue that saving to take my family pub-hopping in Dublin for the holidays was more important than Neal’s education? And could I really expect him to help with the crippling vet bills for a dog he hadn’t even wanted? He’d told me he was quitting his job in insurance sales, and I’d accepted it without a fight. I’d do Ireland another time, I’d reasoned, so I could cover rent, bills, and healthcare while Neal earned his Master’s. And he had. Right before he’d left me for a classmate.
The door jingled behind me, and a man’s voice filled the space. “No, I’m at a coffee shop downstairs,” he said. “Can’t believe I’m starting my morning without Dunkin’, but this sludge will have to do. It’s for a good cause.”
For anyone to suggest that Dunkin’ Donuts was better than this place, which carried specialty, single-origin organic coffee, was absurd. I turned. The man on his cell was at least a head taller than anyone else. With boyishly brown hair, a square, tailored suit, and an even sharper jawline, he looked as if he’d walked right out of a magazine. Considering all the media companies on this block, it was entirely possible that he had come from a photoshoot.
“Hang on,” he said into his cell as he approached the counter. He lowered the phone to his side and read Luciano’s nametag. “Morning, Luciano. Can I get three coffees, two black and one iced with extra cream and sugar?”
“Name?”
He hesitated. “Can you write ‘number one boss’ on the iced coffee?”
Luciano nodded. “Coming right up.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” The man passed over his credit card before stuffing a five-dollar bill in the tip jar.
A generous tip and a sincere thank you? What planet had he come from? Not only was it out of character for a New Yorker, but it was even less so for such a beautiful specimen. Good god, he was something to look at with thick hair the color of my beloved morning mocha and broad shoulders that tapered to a lean waist. Tall and imposing, he seemed vaguely familiar, like an actor who’d suddenly started popping up in every hit movie, or the treadmill hunk who kept all the girls—and some guys—motivated at the gym. Except I had no doubt I would’ve remembered seeing him at my gym.
If I’d belonged to a gym.
He definitely did, if the bulges under his sleeves were any indication. Luciano loved men’s pecs. My boss worshipped at the altar of ass and thigh. But I was all about the face. I loved jaws and noses as strong and distinguished as British royalty, features passed through generations. He had parentheses for laugh lines, and when he half-smiled, a semi-colon formed in one cheek—one perfunctory, deep dimple just slightly above a curved one at the edge of his mouth. I read him like a book that made you forget how—right to left, top to bottom, backward and forward.
He cleared his throat.
To cover up the fact that I’d been staring, I glanced away and continued rehearsing. Was there any greater distraction than a gorgeous man who smelled as if he’d spent the morning foraging for wood—or at least in the men’s product aisle at Target? Fresh Blast, Classic Old Spice, Cool Rush—he was one of those, probably whichever smelled best. If I could remember my presentation in his presence, then I’d nail it later on.
He was at the pick-up counter now, closer than he had been moments ago. Without warning, he squatted at my feet. My breath caught as he reached past my ankle and under the counter. His forearm grazed my calf and I shuddered, goosebumps spreading like wildfire up my bare leg.
He stood and held out one of my notecards. “I think you dropped this.”
I just stared at it, willing my hand to take it, but my body wasn’t done being stunned by his nearness. I hadn’t had a man between my legs in months. And he was still here, inches away, standing closer than a stranger would. As if we’d come here together. As if we were leaving together . . .
“By the way, the iced coffee isn’t for me,” he said gently, as if sensing my discomfort.
I took the index card, shoved it in my bag with the others, and met his eyes—the perfect summer green of the grass in Sheep Meadow where I’d sunbathed just last month. “I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t just pull a Michael Scott and proclaim myself number one boss. I’m actually buttering up my boss.” He shrugged. “And I’m not above excessive flattery or caffeine.”
I glanced around to make sure he wasn’t talking to someone else, but we were alone. He was flirting with me—a man this attractive who was also well-versed in The Office. As soon as the thought hit me, my barely working brain short-circuited. With a chiseled jaw and smooth, styled brown hair, he was a marble statue away from Greek god status. My throat had gone bone-dry. Seconds ticked by, and I still hadn’t answered.
“Hopefully this place does the trick,” he continued with a smile. “I’ve never had the coffee here.”
Slowly, I nodded, grasping at words. “It’s not sludge.”
He chuckled, a deep, sexy sound that made me wish I was funnier so he’d do it again. “You heard that, huh?”
“He’s a master. At the coffee-making.” Sweat formed along my hairline. “Er, he’s a great barista—Luciano, I mean.”
The man wasn’t just intimidatingly large with equally impressive posture. Every piece of his look was perfectly in place, from a shiny gold tie that cut straight down the center of a crisp, white dress shirt to mahogany-colored wingtip brogues so polished I could probably see my own reflection in them. Heat crept up my chest and neck.
“So, is he a friend of yours, Luciano?” he asked. “Or . . .”
It would almost make more sense that a man this handsome and well-dressed would be talking to me to get to Luciano. Except, having grown up with a gay best friend, my radar for these things was usually pretty accurate, and I wasn’t getting that vibe at all. “Just a friend,” I said and tested the waters with, “He’s available.”