Christmas with a Bad Boy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

2. Perfect. Dangerous

TWO

PERFECT. DANGEROUS

SARAIYAH

The bell above the door chimes. I turn from the dead espresso machine.

“Welcome to Ruth’s Brew. What can we brew for…”

The rest of our signature greet dies on my tongue at the sight of him .

Zale Fulton strides intoRuth's Brewlike he owns the place, all crisp lines and cool confidence. His tailored coat makes him look like he just stepped out of a magazine spread, astarkcontrast to the cozy, festive atmosphere of the shop.

Twinkling lights reflect in his eyes, and the scent of cinnamon and pine mingles with his cologne.

Perfect. Controlled. Edgy.

Mine .

I don’t know where that thought originated, but I do nothing to chase it off. Instead, I watch him stalking toward me—a man on a mission—wondering, where have you been, you handsome devil?

I don't give him a chance to make the first move. That's not my style.

"Are you lost?" I call out, leaning over the counter just a little. I keep my voice light and playful. Like this is nothing but a game. Because, to me, it kind of is.

My life is ten seconds from utter ruin, but my Grandma Ruth taught me to hold it down and never break a sweat. My granny taught me well.

Zaleraises an eyebrow, his face a mask of composure. But I see the shift in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw.

Got him .

"Not at all. I had a taste for the best coffee in SoHo. That is what you called it? " His tone is cool, clipped. Like he's closing another business deal.

I'm not buying it.

"Coffee?” I smack my lips and give a little attitude. “Are you sure that's all you're here for?"

“Yes, unless something else is on the menu.” I stand up tall as he stops at the edge of the counter.

“No, sir. Just coffee and pastries. What’ll it be?”

“Black…coffee.”

Oh, he came to play. “Coming right up.”

I turn around and pour him a cup of coffee while my staff handles the other customers. Zale steps to the side, and I join him with his cup of coffee.

My fingers brush his, just for a second. He stiffens, almost imperceptibly. But I notice.

His hand tightens around the cup. "I was in the area on business, Ms. Banks," he replies, voice steady. But his eyes linger on me a little too long, flicking down to my lips before snapping back up.

I rest my hands on the counter, leaning forward slightly. Close enough for him to feel the heat between us.

"Right. Business," I say, my voice dropping just a bit. "I'll bite."

His eyes darken. His mouth tightens, and there it is—that spark. The one that tells me I'm getting under his skin.

He steps closer, our bodies almost touching. I feel the heat of him, and I know he feels it too.

"Don’t tease… I’m not the kind of man that plays with my food." The low, deliberate growl of his retort sends a swarm of butterflies in my stomach.

You’d think I’m a teenager, or someone inexperienced. But most men don’t know how to flirt anymore. But Zale isn’t one of them.

"I’ll remember that," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. My mind flashes back to that night, how he looked at me in my favorite red dress. The red dress that was meant to stop traffic and it stopped him.

Zale’s eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of amusement there too. Like he's enjoying this as much as I am.I can tell he’s used to being in control, but not when it comes to me. Not when we're standing this close, the space between us practically buzzing with tension.

"Unless you’re open for a demonstration," his voice almost teasing now. Almost .

But there's an edge to it, like he's testing me, waiting for me to make the next move or fold. I can’t quite tell.

Instead, I laugh softly, letting it roll out smooth and confident.

"Nah, I’m good,” I say, leaning in just a fraction closer, my eyes never leaving his. "But maybe I’ll take a rain check."

The air between us shifts, tightens. For a second, I swear we're about to cross that line we’re dancing around. I can feel his breath on my skin, see the tension coiled in his body, ready to snap.

But he doesn't say a word. Doesn't make a move. He's too controlled for that.

Zalestraightens up, putting some distance between us. His mask slips back into place, cool and calculated.

"Until then, I'll see you around, Ms. Banks," he says, giving me a curt nod before turning toward the door.

What the fuck was that?

I watch him go, my pulse still racing. He thinks he's back in control, but I know better.

As the door closes behind him, I let out a deep breath. The shop is empty, and Jamal, my part-time employee, must have gone to the back.

I stare at the aged glass door, hoping to catch a glimpse of Zale, but he’s gone. The shop feels emptier without him, and the silence is more pronounced.

I glance around, taking in the holiday decorations, which seem a little less bright now. The garlands draped along the counter, the twinkling lights framing the windows, the small Christmas tree in the corner—they all remind me of happier times, whenGrandma Ruthwould transform the shop into something magical.

The first rays of sunlight are starting to peek through the frosted windows, casting a warm glow on the empty tables. It's going to be another slow day. I can feel it in my bones.

I move back behind the counter, my fingers automatically reaching for the cloth to wipe down the already spotless surface. It's a habit, something to keep my hands busy while my mind races.

Zale'svisit has left me unsettled. Not just because of the tension between us—though that's definitely part of it—but because of what his presence represents. He's part of a world so far removed from mine, a world of power and money that I can only imagine. And yet, here he is, showing up at my little coffee shop like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Ican't help butwonder what he really wants. Is it just the coffee? The company? Or is there something more? And will it be another week before I see him again?

The sound of the bell above the door pulls me from my thoughts. A couple of regulars walk in, their faces familiar and comforting in a wayZale'snever could be. I paste on a smile, pushing thoughts of him to the back of my mind.

"Morning, guys," I call out, already reaching for their usual orders. "The usual?"

They nod, settling into their favorite spot by the window. I watch them for a moment, feeling apangof envy at their easy companionship. It's been a long time since I've allowed myself that kind of connection.

As I prepare their drinks, my mind wanders back toZale. There's something about him that gets under my skin, makes me feel things I've spent years trying to avoid. It's dangerous, this pull between us. I know it, and I'm pretty sure he knows it too.

But knowing something is dangerous has never stopped me before.

I finish up the drinks and bring them over to the couple. They thank me with warm smiles, and for a moment, I let myself bask in the simple pleasure of making someone's day a little brighter. It's why I love this place, why I keep fighting for it even when the odds seem stacked against me.

Back behind the counter, I start prepping for the morning rush. It's not much of a rush these days, but I refuse to let my standards slip. Every cup of coffee that leaves this shop is anodto my grandmother's dream to infuse love and care into every cup of coffee she poured for decades.

A dream she passed on to me.

The morning crawls by, a trickle of customers coming and going. Each time the bell chimes, I look up, half-expecting to seeZale'stall frame filling the doorway. But it's never him.

By mid-morning, the shop is quiet again. I take advantage of the lull to go over the books, something I've been putting off for too long.

The numbers stare back at me, cold and unforgiving. No matter how I try to spin it, the truth is clear:Ruth's Brewis in trouble.

I close the ledger with a sigh. I promised my grandmother I'd keep this place going, that I'd make her proud. But with each passing day, that promise feels more and more like a chain around my neck.

The bell chimes again, and I look up, my heart doing that stupid little skip it always does when I think it might beZale. But it's not him. It's Mr. Chen from the flower shop next door.

"Morning,Saraiyah," he says, his weathered face creasing into a smile. "The usual, please."

I nod, already moving to prepare his green tea. Mr. Chen has been coming here daily for as long as I can remember. He and my grandmother were good friends, and sometimes, I can almost hear her laugh when I look at him.

"How's business?" he asks as I hand him his tea.

I shrug, trying to keep my voice light. "Oh, you know. I’m still waiting for the holiday rush."

He looks around the empty shop, his eyes knowing. "Mm-hmm," he murmurs, not buying my act for a second. "You know, if you ever need help?—"

"I'm fine, Mr. Chen," I cut him off, perhaps a bit too sharply. I soften my tone. "Really. But thank you."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. "Your grandmother would be proud of you, you know. Keeping this place going."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I force a smile, not trusting myself to speak. Mr. Chen gives me a little wave as he heads out, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again.

Would my grandmother be proud? Or would she be disappointed that I'mrunningher beloved shop into the ground?

I shake off the thought, refusing to go down that rabbit hole. Instead, I throw myself into work, cleaning and organizing frantically. Anything to keep my mind off the ledger, offZale, off the growing feeling that I'm fighting a losing battle.

The day drags on, each hour feeling longer than the last. By the time closing rolls around, I'm physically and emotionally exhausted.

As I flip the sign to 'Closed', Ican't help butwonder how many more times I'll get to do this before I have to close the doors for good.