Page 22 of Strictly Pretend

Linc’s words echo in my head.This time, actually try to charm her instead of repulsing her.

Yeah, that’s really working.

“Please,” I say, way too late. “Please sit down.”

She shifts her weight, her arms still folded across her chest in a way that’s distracting. “Okay.”

I let out a breath. Well that was easy. Maybe Linc has a point after all. “What can I get you?” I ask.

“I’ll have a double mocha decaf with no foam, skim milk, no sprinkles, but maybe add a little whipped cream to the top.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m sorry?”

She gives me a smug smile. “Thanks.”

“I didn’t hear what you said.”

She takes a step closer and I can smell the floral notes of her perfume. I swallow hard. “Tell you what, if you get my order right I’ll listen to whatever you have to say.”

“A double mocha?” I say, trying to remember. She needs to slow down her words. “With oat milk?”

“There was more,” she murmurs, her gaze glancing at my mouth.

I know there was. “No sprinkles.”

She grins. “Getting there.” Turning on her heels she walks over to a table on the far side of the café. I turn to the barista and ask for an Americano.

“Anything else?”

“You see the woman over there?” I say, pointing at her. She’s sitting back from the table, her elegant legs crossed.

“Emma?”

“Yeah. Do you know her order?”

“She always orders an espresso.”

My brows knit. “Not a mocha? Without sprinkles. And maybe oat milk?”

The barista shakes his head. “Nope, never. She always orders an espresso, and occasionally a flapjack.” He points at the oat bars in the glass cabinet.

“Okay, an espresso and a flapjack please.” My stomach gurgles. “Make that two flapjacks.”

“Coming up.”

She turns and makes our coffees – an easy enterprise since we both take it black. Before long there are two cups on the tray along with two plates, each with a flapjack on them. I pay, adding a tip, and carry the tray over to where Emma is sitting.

She’s looking out of the window, her face profiled against the light streaming in through the glass. She has no idea I’m so close so I take a moment to scrutinize her.

Along with her red hair she has the palest skin. There are freckles across the bridge of her nose and along her cheekbones. Her lips are pink, her eyelashes a sandy blonde that remind me of the corn fields around my father’s estate.

I clear my throat, mostly because I don’t want to startle her as I’m sliding the tray onto the table in front of her. She looks at me, startled, then at the coffee cups.

I take a seat and slide her cup and plate over to her. “One espresso and a flapjack.”

“Is that what I ordered?” she asks me, her brows knitted.

“No. But it’s what you wanted.”

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