Chapter 1

From the moment he walks up to the counter and turns those pale blue eyes my way, I know I’m lost. He wears a meticulous suit, crisp and freshly pressed, cut to accentuate his narrow waist and the swell of his butt. When he smiles shyly at me, I grin foolishly back. Suddenly I’m all too aware of the dingy white apron I wear, the ground coffee under my nails, the new, too short haircut exposing my ears. I smooth my hand across the shorn top of my head, then wipe both hands on my apron. “Good morning,” I say, stepping to the counter.

“Good morning, Austin.” His voice is deeper than I expect.

A grin threatens to split my face. “How do you know my name?” I want to hear him say it again.

He points at my chest, where the nametag I wear proudly proclaims I’m Austin, manager-in-training for the Lakeside Café. I roll my eyes and try not to blush. Ducking my head, I toy with a tear in the countertop and notice the initial ring he wears—SBJ.I want to know what each letter stands for, but I’m not the type to ask. But he holds out a hand and, as if he can read my mind, says, “I’m Seth.”

I’m too startled to do anything but shake his hand. His touch is warm and strong, and almost reluctantly I let go. “What can I get you this morning, Seth?”

When I glance up, those baby blues gaze back. Damn, he’s hot. I know I’m staring but I can’t help it. For a long moment he doesn’t say anything, just watches me, and I want to say something witty but nothing comes to mind. Great time to choke up, Austin,I chastise silently.

Just as I’m about to ask again, he nods at the small clapboard on the counter, where today’s special is written in my sloppy handwriting. “What’s a Mocha Locha Latté?”

Though the ingredients are written on the board, I like talking to him, so I lean over the counter to read the board, all too aware he doesn’t step away from me. His hand rests on the counter by my arm, and I want to touch him again but I don’t. “Chocolate and amarillo and—”

“Amaretto,” he says, laughing. When I look up at him, he’s so close I can smell the warm musk cologne he wears. “Amarillo is a city in Texas.”

“I’ve never been there,” I say, smiling.

He smiles back. “Why not?” His fingers brush against my arm accidentally, causing the hairs to stand up at the touch.

Are we flirting? God, I hope so. But I hear a clatter in the back room and remember I’m not alone—my manager Mandy will probably be out at any moment, and if she sees me hanging all over this hot guy, I’ll never hear the end of it.

So as much as I hate to do it, I stand back quickly and point at the board. “You want to try one of those?”

“Are they any good?” The smile lingers on his lips.

I shrug and busy myself with picking at the countertop again. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I’m not big on coffee.”

He laughs. “And you work here?”

I shrug again. “It’s a job. It pays the bills.” I dare to look up and almost lose my train of thought. I could get lost in those light eyes. “Do you like coffee?”

“I like some of the specialty drinks,” he says. “Mostly the chocolate ones. I like sweet things.” I feel my cheeks heat up at the intense way he’s watching me. “With lots of whipped cream.”

I imagine him naked, white foamy cream covering his nipples and cock, and I hope to God I’m not blushing as much as I think I am. “Well,” I sigh, turning away. I look up at the menu above me, trying to focus on the words written there. “How about a Chocolate Caramel Latté? Those are sweet, and I can use lots of whipped cream for you—”

“Just for me?” he purrs.

I jump—suddenly he’s very close, his voice curling into my ear like a secret.

“Well, most people like it that way,” I stammer. I’m blushing again, damn it. “It’s very sweet. I’m sure you’ll like it…” Please,I pray. God, you already think I’m an idiot. Please just order something and let me crawl into the nearest hole. Please.

“Do youlike it?” he asks. Numbly I nod, not trusting myself to speak. “Then I’ll take one.”

I busy myself making the drink. I try not to look at him while I work, but every time I glance his way those eyes are watching me, making my hands clumsy.

When it’s ready, I hand him the tall glass. “Here you go.” The drink is hot and the whipped cream is piled up on top of it like a promise. I even sprinkled chocolate jimmies and cinnamon on it. I’m trying too hard. “I hope you like it.”

He hands me his credit card, that smile still on his face, and I roll my eyes—I forgot to ring up the drink. “I’m sure I will.” He sips at the hot liquid and, when he sets the glass down, he has a thin mustache of whipped cream along his upper lip. As I watch, his tongue licks it away, and I fight the urge to lick my own lips.