Page 12 of Defensive Desire

I'm not sure I'm brave enough to risk that again.

Not even for a woman who smells like vanilla and makes coffee thatliterallytastes like home.

Chapter Four

Emma

"No, not that one either."

I toss the third shirt of the morning onto my growing reject pile and dive back into my closet. Professional but casual. Approachable but polished. Sexy but not trying too hard.

Why is this so complicated?

"You know…" Lucy drawls from my reading nook, not looking up from her book. "For someone who claims to be completely uninterested in Logan Kane, you're putting an awful lot of effort into what outfit he's going to see you in today."

I glare at her over my shoulder.

"It's for the promotional video. For thecamera. For theIcehawks. And my chance to win that café to help get eyes on my new brand…"

"Mmhmm." She takes a slow sip of her coffee, eyes twinkling over the rim of her mug. "And I'm sure you'd be trying on your fourth outfit if you were partnered with, say, Coach Brody?"

"Shut up," I mutter, finally settling on a soft emerald button-down that brings out the highlights in my hair. I think. Maybe. It's fitted, without being tight, casual enough for a coffee shop owner but nice enough for camera.

Not that I care what Logan thinks about it.

"You're being ridiculous," Lucy says, setting her book down. "You realize that, right? The man built you shelves, Emma.Shelves. With his own two hands."

I look across to the smooth wood of the new shelves, admiring how perfectly level they sit against my wall. The rich mahogany gleams under the shop lights, already looking like they've always been part of Chapter & Grind.

Great.

Now all I can think about is how Logan's forearms flexed as he worked the power drill, how the muscles in his back rippled when he lifted each shelf into place.

"That doesn't mean anything," I argue, though the memory of those big, capable hands measuring wood, muscles flexing... well, it certainly means something to the heat pooling low in my belly.

"Right." Lucy rolls her eyes. "And the way he looks at you like he wants to devour you right alongside your bestselling blend? Just normal customer appreciation, I'm sure."

I throw a pillow at her, which she deftly catches.

"I'm packing coffee samples," I announce, desperate to change the subject. "Want to help?"

"Nope." She settles deeper into the armchair that's unofficially become hers. "I'm going to sit right here and enjoy watching you pretend you're not head over heels for Iron Ridge's most eligible enforcer."

"I hate you sometimes."

"No, you don't." She grins. "You love me because I tell you the truth when you're being an idiot."

I sigh, carefully packing samples of my five signature blends into a wooden display box Logan made last week. It's gorgeous craftsmanship, with the Chapter & Grind logo wood-burned into the lid.

Another item on the growing list of things Logan's fixed, built, or improved around my shop without being asked.

Just as I'm adding the fresh labels I designed yesterday, the bell over the door chimes. My grandfather strolls in, wearing his usual plaid flannel and suspenders, his cap pulled low over his twinkling eyes.

"There's my superstar!" he calls, making a beeline for the counter where I've already poured his usual—dark roast, black, in his special mug shaped like an old typewriter.

"Morning, Grandpa." I slide the coffee to him and accept his kiss on my cheek.

He studies me, those wise eyes taking in my careful outfit choice and nervous fidgeting. "Big day with the camera crew, eh?"

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