Page 1 of Bittersweet

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Romy

Love—it'swhat I do. Love is why I get up in the morning, and it's the last thing I think of at night. I'm aware this makes me sound like a complete freak, and that spending my days dreaming about weddings, happily ever afters, and sweet hot nothings whispered in my ear by a certain sweet, hot barista might make me pathetic, but such is the life of a coffee-obsessed weddingblogger.

I trace my hand over the sweetheart neckline of the wedding gown. Thirteen months ago, my big day wascoming.

Turned out my fiancé, Jeremy, was coming,too.

Coming inside a model named Lisa. Then one named Ireland. Then a cocktail waitress namedLeticia.

My phone sounds from the kitchen, and I give the dress one last look. My symbol of hope. Because I know that someday, somehow, I’m going to find a man worth wearing itfor.

Touching the dress once more for luck, I race into the kitchen, swiping my phone from thecounter.

Emma:You free later? I thought I might swingby.

I quickly tap out areply.

Romy:I’m alwaysfree.

Emma:You know if you actually told the Coffee Hottie how you felt about him, you’d never be “free”again.

Ha!I mock-glare at my phone, as if my best friend could somehow see me on the other end of it, then stash it in my purse before rushing downstairs to meet the current love of mylife.

Coffee.

It’s never let medown.

I can taste it on the tip of my tongue, that bittersweet mix of earth and something darker, something sexier, something altogether intoxicating. From the time I wake until I lay my head on the pillow at night, coffee consumes most of my mental real estate, right alongsideweddings.

Coffee.

Weddings.

And my favoritebarista.

My feet hit the final stair, and I pause at the internal door connecting my stairwell to the café below. I look through the glass door, my breath catching in mythroat.

Elio.

My coffeehottie.

The gorgeous Italian barista with the dark chocolate eyes and scruffy beard might be the reason I’m out of bed and in a full face of makeup before 9:00 a.m., but it isn’t just that face or body, or the way he grins when he hands me my cup of piping-hot coffee that has me here everymorning.

It’s also his muffins. And do not even get me started on his buns. The man is a mean baker, and I’d happily offer myself up as a guinea pig to taste test his . . . er . . . his bakedgoods.

But that will neverhappen.

Because as much as I love the idea of indulging in Elio, I know a guy as delicious as him would never go for a woman like me. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass window as I reach for the handle.Yeah, no way would a man that fine be ready for all thisjelly.

The little bell above the bakery door tinkles as I enter. The smell of cinnamon, of baking, of oh-so delicious hits me in a wave of warmth. I suck in a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment as the door behind me swings closed. This. Is.Heaven.

“Morning, Romy.” My own personal god smiles at me. “What can I interest you intoday?”

You.

Served up shirtless on aplatter.

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