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

7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Zara

“ I knew he was perfect for you.” Stacy sips her Arnold Palmer, sitting backwards on the high stool next to me at the café. I’m back on my normal stool at the bar ledge by the window, my laptop opened in front of me. “And this is perfective.” I look over my shoulder as she lifts her drink and salutes Maggie the barista on shift this morning.

“Why exactly are you here two days in a row?” I tease my sister.

She spins on the stool, her feet resting on the footrest of my stool. “I was craving a real Arnold Palmer, and I needed to hear you tell me I was right about Devon. So, say it again.”

My mind floats to the spectacular kisses we shared last night. A secret I keep from my sister. “You were right. He’s the right size.”

“Music to my ears. And speaking of music, did you tell him yet?”

I shake my head. “He has two left feet. I’m going to have to change the routine.” I haven’t told Devon everything I planned for my pitch. He’d need to model the team outfits including the travel blazer, hoodie, and sweatsuit which he’s yet to touch. But the finale of the pitch has him in the full mascot uniform, performing a dance routine. It’s a perfect sequence for Michael, a fan of Dancing with the Stars . A routine Stacy has worked on for weeks. No way Devon will be able to pull off such a complicated performance.

“You can’t have him just stand there and clap his hands,” Stacy objects. “Your competition will have fireworks, marching bands, and probably a guest appearance by Lady Gaga.” Stacy is all about bringing the thunder. Her approach to life is to be loud and demand people take notice. “No joke, I found out one of the teams is bringing six members of a nationally ranked volleyball team. While their sales team pitches, the volleyball players will play a game on the court. That’s going to leave an impression.”

Nothing she says is a surprise. I’ve done my research as well. Businesses with a long history of designing sports uniforms are presenting. All with deep pockets and resources I don’t possess.

“At the end of the day, the best design should win,” I give the same pep talk I gave myself the first six times I pitched ideas for my company years ago. Even after I discovered Christine had worked behind the scenes to bury each of them.

Stacy kicks my stool and spins away. “In a perfect world, yeah. But we don’t live in a perfect world. People make decisions based on emotion. Give them something they can feel. Make it memorable, and they’ll never forget you.”

An image of Devon whipping off his tank top, standing in front of me bare chested, floods my head. My knees go weak with just the thought. A sight I know I’ll never forget.

Stacy hops off the stool, her gaze freezing on something of interest outside the café. “He sucks at making drinks. He must be good at something; maybe it’s dancing. I’ll talk to him.”

I follow her gaze and spot Devon approaching. He told me last night he’s been assigned to the lunch rush today. I grab Stacy by her wrist. “Don’t. I’ll talk to him when it’s the right time.”

She stares down at my hand gripping her wrist. I release it. “Okay. But the pitch is in a few days. You don’t have a lot of time. Don’t eliminate the dance—it’s the climax of the presentation. If you’re right about his two left feet, you’re going to need every second to get him ready. The sooner you get him on board the better.”

“Morning, ladies.” Devon’s smooth voice interrupts us, and we both turn. He’s wearing an oversized three-quarter-length baseball style T-shirt that looks as if he picked it up from a street vendor for three dollars. The material is paper thin with the words Not Today written in a large purple font. The shirt screams fashion disaster.

“Don’t you mean afternoon?” Stacy corrects him. It’s eleven thirty, which is technically still morning.

He gives her a quick smile before turning to face me. We lock eyes, and it takes everything in me not to caress his face and kiss him. I, instead, point to his shirt. “Don’t tell me I’m going to have to start to dress you full-time?”

The corner of his lip curls up for a split second as if he put on this shirt just for this reaction. “People have told me I’m fashion challenged. I’ve never believed them until now.”

“Why now?” I follow his lead in search of a reward.

“None of them were a professional fashion designer, like you. When you speak, I listen.”

I run a finger down the front of his chest, fisting his oversized shirt between my fingers. “We’ve only begun to scratch the surface of my skills.” I hear my voice; it’s filled with a confidence and flirtatious tone I could get used to. “You should lose the shirt.”

He reaches for the bottom of the t-shirt, his fingers fisting it. “I bet you’d like that.” It lifts two inches, and my treasonous eyes refuse to look away. I catch the sliver of skin, and I gulp. A slice of his golden abdomen I fell asleep dreaming about.

The loud slurp of a drink pulls our attention. I turn to find Stacy fingers pinching her straw, standing two feet away, staring at us. “So, you guys are just going to act like I don’t exist, huh?” I don’t respond, and she lowers her drink. “What exactly happened last night?”

Devon at least has the sense not to respond. So, I do. “Don’t you have a class to get back to or something?” I deflect.

Stacy reaches behind her and grabs her backpack. “Subtle.” She takes a final pull on her straw, hooks the strap of her bag over her shoulder, and pulls me into a quick hug. She whispers, “Listen in the silence. Have you checked his socials?”

I squeeze her, warmed by her concern. “I got this.” It’s only been one day. But I’ve already seen him half naked. My hands have shamelessly roamed across his chest. We’ve kissed. Do I have this? I most certainly don’t.

I untangle from my sister, but she has the last word. She usually does. “Devon, do you like to dance?”

“Stacy!” I warn her and turn toward Devon, whose brows are pinched tight across his forehead.

“Like Ellen on Seinfeld,” he says, and I can’t tell whether he’s joking or not.

Stacy scoffs, “Figures.” She taps the watch on her wrist. “Tick tock, big sis. Tick tock.”

I give her a dismissive wave of my hand. Devon and I stand side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and watch her exit the café.

“What was that about?” he asks.

“Nothing.” I spin on my toes to face him and am struck once again by how attractive he is. This close, I take in the fresh scent of spearmint. “Just my bratty little sister being… well, a brat.” He glances over his shoulder, back toward the office, and I know he’s looking to clock in. “Thanks again for last night. You have no idea how much this is helping me.”

He steps closer, tips his head down. “I enjoyed it. I hope you feel the same way.” His eyes flit to the spot in the café where we shared our first kiss. “I was afraid future you would apologize.”

The thought had crossed my mind. Stacy roped him into this, and I acted like a horny seventeen-year-old, running my hands all over his body. “I just don’t want you to feel… if it’s too much… any of it.” I’m rambling. I want him to know the feelings I had last night are still here. Just being in his orbit makes me want to do things to him. I have no idea how he feels. “I don’t normally kiss men the first day I meet them. This is new… at least it is for me.” I hear the concern in my voice. What if this is what he does? Does he have women throwing themselves at him on a regular? His helpless dude-in-distress routine too tempting to resist.

He reaches out, his hand resting on my triceps. “Have you seen me? I’m the tripping, clueless barista. Not really a big draw with the ladies. The last thing I kissed was a tree in the park when I tripped.”

“Are you closing again tonight?” The question is out of my mouth before I’ve thought it through.

He shakes his head. “Mrs. Whitehead is doing the close tonight. She wants to work on some new recipe after hours.”

“Do you want to come over? To my place?” My pulse races with the thought of Devon and me alone at my apartment. “We still have a few outfits for you to try on.” My gaze skitters from his eyes to his chest and back up again. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

He tilts his head slightly as if assessing my offer. As if he’s fighting his instinct. “Sure.” I breathe a sigh of relief. “Under one condition.”

I hold my breath.

“Let me pick your brains during my breaks on café culture.”

I exhale. “Yes, of course. That I can do. I thought you were going to say something else.”

He gives me a smirk. “I can’t wait to find out what that is. Let me clock in and slip on my apron.”

With the mention of apron, I bounce on my toes. “Hold up. I got you something.” I step to my bag and dig into the outer pocket, pulling out the baby-blue tissue paper. “This is for you. For your apron.”

I place the trinket in the palm of his hand and bounce on my toes, waiting for him to see it. “What is it?”

“Open it, silly.”

I watch as his fingers unwrap the tissue paper. My heart races when his face contorts from curious to joyful. “Is this…”

“Just something to add a little pop of color for your apron.” As much as I love all things Coffee Loft, their mud-brown aprons have never been a favorite of mine. After last night, I could barely sleep. My mind kept racing back to that kiss. I woke at five this morning and needed something to occupy my mind. I designed three different trinkets for the aprons, settling on this one. The layered cloth, three-inch by three-inch pin is a broken cup and saucer.

Devon lifts the pin to his chest and chuckles. “It’s in recognition of your talent for breaking things.”

“I’ll treasure this every day I remain employed,” he jokes, and I’m reminded how tenuous his position is. He could be gone tomorrow.

“Which reminds me, we should exchange contact information. I can text you my address, and you can let me know when you’re headed over.” I pull my phone from my back pocket. “While we’re at it, I’ll shoot you my Instagram handle. It’s not as interesting as Stacy’s but if you don’t mind looking at swatches of materials and buttons, you might enjoy it.”

I hold the phone out, expecting to find Devon doing the same. His eyes are wide in panic. “Yes, let’s do that,” he starts, his arm extended toward me as he walks backwards. “I must clock in first. I’ll catch you on my break.”

He’s gone before I can respond. I’m left holding my phone in my hand like those drunk guys at the bar, hitting on girls clearly out of their league.

I remain frozen and listen. I hear my sister’s advice. My mother’s words. That’s twice he’s done something like this. The warning bells are now blaring like the foghorns on the Titanic. I’m missing something that should be staring right at me in my face.

What is it?