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

10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

Devon

T he minute her eyes open, I know I’m in trouble.

I’ve overplayed my hand. It was a crappy hand to begin with. I told myself on the walk over that I’d follow Marvin’s advice even if it was against every instinct I possess. I’d keep my distance; I’d focus on the pitch. We’d enjoy a nice dinner; I’d try on a few outfits and would avoid the ridiculous attraction I feel for Zara.

That was the plan.

The one that went out the window the minute our lips touched.

“Devon? Who are you?”

I feel my brow furrow, and I freeze. “What do you mean?”

She retreats and as much as I want to mirror her movement, I don’t.

“One minute, you can’t string two sentences together. You drop glassware like it’s electrified and the next… you’re like this?”

Crap. I’ve screwed up. Once Zara kissed me, I totally forgot all about Devon the barista. I know how to speak to a beautiful woman; audition and rehearsal rooms are filled with them. I can flirt with the best of them. I’ve kissed my share of starlets. But I’ve never reacted the way I do when Zara kisses me.

“Like what?” My question is as transparent as the plastic wrap used on the sandwiches. I’m buying time.

She grabs opposite elbows, her eyes filling with hope. I should tell her the truth. Everything. “I like you, Devon,” she voices the words I should have the courage to say first. “Obviously. I don’t kiss men hours after I meet them.” She waves a hand at the counter. “And I certainly don’t bring just anyone up to my apartment.”

I bite down on my tongue. She’s braver than I am. She’s more honest than I am. I’m a fraud. A liar. I should go. But I can’t. Our connection can’t be denied. It’s too late to walk away. I give her the only thing I can—silence.

She’s opening up, and I need to listen and respect every word.

“If this is some game for you, please let me know right now. Before…” Her eyes lower to the couch, the message clear. Before we go any further.

“I’m a good guy, Zara.” My words do little to comfort her. They’re the words even bad men use. “I like you too. I really do. I know you don’t know me. But I’m really hoping we can change that.” She lowers her hands to her sides, and it takes everything in me not to reach for her.

“When I’m around you, I forget who I am.” I realize my words are true. I follow my instincts. How far can I go? My every instinct is to come clean. To tell her the truth. But it’s the one-line Marvin insists I don’t cross. “Especially when it’s just the two of us. I forget the rest of the world. I forget what I am, what I’m not, and just focus on what I can be.”

She lays the palm of her hand on my chest. Center chest, like she did last night. But this time, it feels so different. It feels like a warning.

“I do like you, Devon. Even after you nearly destroyed my mascot head and served me the worst latte in the history of the Coffee Loft.” She gives me a soft smile. One I don’t deserve.

Her words lighten the mood and as much as it calls for a smart retort, I trust my instinct and stay somber. “And I like you, Zara. Even though I should be focusing on my career. My job has become the distraction; you’re the attraction.”

My words come straight from the heart, but they’re still layered in deceit. I hate feeling this way. I hate keeping the truth from her. I pray she can feel my sincerity layered in my misdirection. It’s an unfair position to put anyone in, I know this, yet I cling to this thin thread like a lifeline.

“I want to trust you.” She gives me puppy dog eyes. Her vulnerability has my heart pounding in my chest. Her hand is right there; she must feel it. “You’d tell me if I had any reason not to trust you, right?”

“I’d never do anything to hurt you.”

“I’m not sure that’s a promise you can keep.” I freeze and wonder if I’m missing something. “I’ve seen you spill hot tea on Mr. Aviles’ foot. Had Mrs. Whitehead playing the floor is lava around your broken plates. If I stick around, it’ll only be a matter of time before I’m hurt.” Her broken smile fails to hide the underlying concern.

She’s too kind. I should walk away.

But I can’t.

I’ve agreed to help her with the pitch. If I walk out on her like Michael did, I would be doing what I promised her I wouldn’t do—hurt her.

This time, my sixth sense screams for me to pivot. “You told me I was getting better,” I shoot the line like flares from a fighter jet, looking to redirect her truth-seeking missile.

“Yes. But an improvement from total disaster to just disaster still places everyone in the danger zone.” Her snicker eases the tension in the air, and I watch her reach up into a cabinet to retrieve a stack of plates and bowls. She juts her chin toward a drawer next to the sink, and I pull it open. She places the plates on the counter, and I catch the glint in the corner of her eye. She points to the corkscrew in the drawer, and I pull it out.

“Let’s dig in before the food gets cold.” I reach for the bottle of wine and open it. By the time I pop the cork, she’s laid out placemats on her kitchenette table with matching cloth napkins, silverware, and fancy wine glasses with a gold trim. This isn’t just two friends sharing takeout, not for her.

I step to the setup and pour wine into the glasses. I look up at Zara, who’s opening the various containers of food. “I had them pack paper plates and plastic cutlery. We don’t have to dirty up your good plates.”

She looks up at me with a strange look on her face. “You brought flowers.” She points to the bouquet still resting on the counter. “That makes this an official date. A first date. I think you deserve the good china.”

The last thing I feel I deserve are her words.

Guilt forces out my words. “Make me earn that trust, Zara.” I pray she hears the warning, It’s the best I can do.

My warning has the intended consequence. The flame of desire fades away. “Why am I not surprised the woman must do all the work?”

“I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant is…” Don’t rush. I pause and beat back my impulse. Zara hangs onto my every word. I’m walking on a tightrope, high above the city on a windy day. One misstated word could have me tumbling to my demise. “I can say a thousand times I’m a good guy. And I am. I realize we’re moving at lightspeed.” I wait for the tiny headshake of acknowledgement. “And I’m loving every second of it. I really am. But the next week is a big deal for both of us.”

Her lips part, and she whispers, “Both? I know I have the pitch. You?”

I’ve just painted myself into a corner. Checkmate. She asks a direct question that future her will remember when my truth finally escapes. I hate every word that’s about to come out of my mouth. “I’m still on probation at the café.”

She lowers her eyes to the counter, busying her hands by popping open a white Styrofoam container from the sandwich shop. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying the opposite of what I feel,” I share part of my truth. “I’m saying, if you have any doubts about the speed at which we’re moving, we slow down. For the week.” I watch her nervous fingers snatch a french fry from the box. She pulls it from the ends like it’s a rubber band as if expecting it to snap back.

“My choice?”

I nod. “It will always be your choice. If I ever do anything or say anything that makes you uncomfortable…”

She raises a finger in my direction. “You don’t, Devon. You must know that. Look at us. Look at where we’ve gone already. Look at where we are.” I hear her vulnerability in every syllable. The implication is written in broad strokes. At this pace, we both know where we might be a week from now.

She wants me. I want her. But I hold the cards. I carry the secret. This game is rigged for her. I keep saying I’m a good guy. It’s time to prove it.

“Let’s wait awhile.” I remove the weight of the decision from her shoulders.

Her eyes flash something I can’t read. I don’t know her well enough to know if it’s relief or concern. It only solidifies what I should’ve said at the start. We don’t know each other.

“Let’s focus on getting through the next week. On having moments like this. Like we did last night. Let’s get to know each other and, in a week, if we want to press that Turbo button together, I’ll be all in. Deal?”

She twirls the french fry in front of her face. “In that case, I guess I won’t have you wear those ridiculously sexy shorts for me again.” A strained laugh escapes, and she takes a nibble of her fry. “And for the record, you can never go wrong bringing me garlic fries.”

“Duly noted.” I stride to the other side of the counter, scooping up two containers of Chinese food. “Clarifying question?”

I turn to catch her hand back in the container, stealing another fry. “I like questions?” She giggles and carries the container to the table.

“Am I still allowed to fill my cup with my daily allocation of Zara glances?” My question isn’t meant as a joke. Regardless of the answer, I know there’s no way my eyes won’t find their way to wherever she is while she’s in the café.

“Yes. We may still ogle each other as much as our hearts desire.”

I make note of her use of the word heart.

“If we’re going to do this, we need some ground rules. We can look but no touching. Touching makes me…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. The words unnecessary. I feel the same.

She turns, giving me her back as she returns to the counter. As much as I tell my eyes to look anywhere but at her swinging hips, they don’t listen. No touching means no kissing. If I had known that quick ghost kiss we shared earlier might be the last one we shared for a week, I would have let my lips linger a little longer.

I can do this. One week. I can keep my hands to myself. I can keep my secret hidden for a week.

All I need to do is focus. In a week, I’ll officially have the coveted role I’m training for. In a week, Zara’s pitch will be behind her. In a week, I’ll be able to kiss her again.

One week. I can do this.