Grounds for Romance (The Coffee Loft Series: Fall Collection)

5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Zara

T he Coffee Loft is deserted. The last customer left over fifteen minutes ago, and my heart is racing. Mrs. Whitehead has asked Devon to join her in the office in the back of the shop to discuss how the day went.

I had expected the conversation to be quick. But with every passing minute, my concern grows. Is she firing Devon? Did he climb out the tiny window to escape facing me with the embarrassing news? Did she give him a timeout and force him to watch the coffee channel on YouTube? Is that a thing? If not, it totally should be.

My foot nudges the shopping bag of volleyball uniform designs I grabbed from my apartment moments ago. I’m the only person in the café after hours, a courtesy Mrs. Whitehead extended because I’ve spent nearly as many hours here as her.

I jump when I hear footsteps. “Do better.” My back stiffens with the harsh words from the nicest coffee shop owner on the planet. I’ve never heard her say a cross word to another human. He’s totally fired.

“Lock up when you’re finished, and I’ll see you mid-day tomorrow.” Mrs. Whitehead shoots the words over her shoulder at Devon, marching directly toward the exit. She looks up, her eyes widening as if she forgot I was here.

“Zara!” Her lips part, and I brace for what comes next. She gives me a frustrated short headshake and steps around me, escaping before she’s forced to scream.

I turn, ready to console a devastated Devon. I locate him behind the counter with an unjustified look of anger on his face. Whatever Mrs. Whitehead has said to him, no matter how harsh, is well-deserved.

“You’ve done the impossible. You’ve gotten Mrs. Whitehead upset.” I tiptoe toward the counter, careful not to disturb the bull in the china shop.

“I was set up to fail,” he barks, and I step closer to see what he’s doing. Knee to the floor, he’s digging into the stock stored in the cabinets beneath the counter. “It says it right there decaffeinated tea.” I make my way behind the counter to see what he’s yelling about. He grabs a gray and white box of tea, which even from where I’m standing, clearly reads in thirty-point font Caffeinated .

He grabs another package of gold coffee that I recognize. Columbian gold. The strongest bean in the shop. “Everything down here is in the wrong place. I studied and memorized every freaking recipe. But nothing is where it should be.” He plops his rear to the ground, his legs crossing in front of him. A look of defeat on his face. He points to the embossed labels on the edge of each shelf. “Everything is in the wrong place.” He lifts his chin at me, his eyes flashing anger again. “That’s why my drink game is weak.”

I take a step back. I understand his frustration, but it’s pointed in the wrong direction.

“It was a rigged test,” he barks.

I told Devon I would help him, and I will. It begins with telling him the truth, no holding my tongue, no secrets. That’s what friends do. “And you failed.” I don’t hold back. “Miserably.”

His jaw clinches so tight, I expect to hear his molars grinding.

“Would you rather I stood in front of your face and lied? That’s not the type of person who has your best intentions at heart.”

His gaze lowers to the floor, and I fear my words may have broken him. The silence in the café is deafening.

An hour-long minute passes before he moves. His hands untying and retying his sneaker. His words a mere whisper. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I didn’t pay attention to the actual packages, I read the label at the top of the shelf and assumed. The truth was staring me in the face all day, if only I had allowed myself to open my eyes and see it.”

I step toward him, bending and extending my hands to help him to his feet. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It was your first day and…” I release his hands and strut in front of him. Hips swinging side to side, arms raised to the ceiling, I give him what he needs—a moment of levity. “…I was kind of a distraction all day.”

On my trip home to pick up the outfits, I did a quick change. My favorite tight jeans, a white silk tank top blouse that always gets a reaction from guys, and an oversized, button-down, burnt orange sweater that somehow always falls off my shoulders, exposing way too much skin for this time of the year.

If I’m going to get Devon to commit to my crazy plan, I know I need to provide an incentive. I twist away from him and right on cue, my sweater droops off one shoulder, his gaze snapping to my naked shoulder.

“Distraction, you say.” Gone is the frustration and anger. Wiped away with a little skin and tight jeans. I skip backwards and embrace the moment. A unique chemistry sparkling in the air between us. “That right there.” I point at him. “That look.” Devon tilts his head, heat practically radiating off him. “I had to stop. Had to in order to get any work done earlier. I lost count.”

“Count?”

“The number of times I looked up and caught you staring in my direction.”

“Interesting.” He steps toward me slowly as if he doesn’t want to rush this moment. Good, neither do I. “I did the same. But I never stopped counting.”

Devon is full-on flirting with me, and my happy heart loves every second of it. “Let’s do this. On three, we shout the number.” I’m twenty-eight years old and haven’t had so much fun teasing a guy since I was eighteen and had asked Manuel, the dreamy quiet kid who I suspected had a crush on me, to the fall high school dance.

“We really going there?” Devon steps in front of me, his feet planted hip-width apart. He reaches his hands out for me to take his. I don’t hesitate.

My lips part, and I hear a breath escape as I enjoy the spark shoot up through me. “On three.”

“One… two… three.”

We’re two synchronized souls speaking. “Two hundred sixty-two,” I say.

“Six hundred and forty-seven,” he says, and I lose it.

An uncontrollable fit of giggles forces their way out of my mouth. My poor sweater never stands a chance. It falls off both shoulders, not stopping until it stretches across my torso. Thank goodness I’m wearing a tank top underneath.

Devon gives my hand a slight tug, forcing me to step forward. He doesn’t ease until I’m standing three inches in front of him, the tips of my sneakers tapping his. He releases one hand, and it reaches behind me, lifting the corner of my sweater. He’s slow-motion smooth, taking his time, his eyes marking a trail for his hand to follow. Inch by inch. “I win,” he whispers, and I have no reply.

He lifts the corner of the sweater, his index finger touching my bare skin as he adjusts the material. His hand presses against my shoulder to set it in place, and I warn myself not to look at him directly in his dreamy eyes. This close, I am no longer responsible for my actions.

I force myself to speak. I say the three words I know will make this situation worse. “What’s the prize?”

He releases my other hand, a mirror movement from a moment ago. I take a deep inhale and wait. Wait for his response. Wait for him to adjust my sweater. Wait for his finger to accidentally brush against my shoulder again. I usually hate to wait. But for him, I hope he takes all night.

I hear the shutter of my breath when his finger brushes against my bare shoulder. Skin to skin. We’re alone in a deserted café, and this man is putting the moves on me. And I’m totally okay with it.

“You’re the prize,” he delivers the line like a man of experience. The opposite of how he is every time he steps behind the counter. “That, and I get to set a new record tomorrow.”

I point to a far dark corner of the café. “Maybe I should sit over there tomorrow and wear my ugly purple jumpsuit. I don’t want to be a distraction and be responsible for you getting yourself fired.”

His chuckle warms my heart. “You could wear a Grimace costume, and I’d still never be able to tear my eyes from you.”

Our noses are less than two inches from one another. It would be so easy to tip up on my toes and steal a kiss. But I won’t make the first move. I don’t know Devon. He could have a girlfriend. He could be a player.

“Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you back at that apartment of yours?” I realize he must have the same thoughts as me. I raise a peace sign.

“Two. Ben and Jerry.” My brilliant retort is rewarded with a smile that sends my heart racing. “You?”

“Does Little Debbie count?”

I giggle and relax. I like this version of Devon. Quick, confident, sexy. It’s a winning combination. “Glad that’s out of the way. If we’re going to work together, I guess we should get to know each other better. Have you always wanted to be a barista, or is this part of some master plan to take down the coffee cartel?”

He freezes, and I rewind the question in my head. What did I say?

He takes a step back, bursting the bubble we were in. The warm, comforting, I want to kiss you bubble. “It’s a job.” His statement is flat, devoid of emotion. I wait for him to expound, and when he doesn’t, I take the hint.

“Speaking of jobs, I’ve brought a few designs.” I give him my back and pace toward the shopping bag. “We can do it quick. I know you’ve had a long day.”

My feet pause when I hear him mutter to himself. “Say something.” Two words not meant for my ears. Two words that put me on alert. I freeze and wait for him to say something.

Anything.

Please.

Take us back to the bubble.

Make me laugh again.

Make me do something irresponsible.

All I hear is silence. It sets off warning bells. My mother’s voice in my head, the words instilled in me since I hit puberty. The ones I continue to remind Stacy about. Don’t fall for the words he says. Make note of what he doesn’t say. That’s where the truth lies.

I dig into the shopping bag, the loud crinkle of plastic sounding like explosions in the quiet café. I grab a pair of shorts and a tank top, designs I’ve spent months on and am so proud of. Designs that had me skipping like a schoolgirl, racing back to the café to share with Devon. The shortness of breath I experienced when I pushed open the café searching him out is long gone. Replaced with a ragged breath filled with concern.

I turn, and all I find is him staring down at his feet. It’s the first time I’ve looked up all day at him and don’t catch him looking back. It’s the first time the sound my heart racing in my chest doesn’t drown out everything else. For the first time I can hear, and all I hear are warning bells and silence.