Page 2 of Defensive Desire

It's disgustingly cute.

Or just disgusting.

I can't decide.

"Seriously though," Lucy continues, hopping onto the stool beside Connor. "Everyone's talking about your blends, Em. Big Mike himself was asking where you learned to roast beans!"

A warm flush of pride spreads through my chest. Big Mike, the Icehawks' owner, is notoriously picky about everything… especially his coffee.

"My grandfather taught me," I admit, glancing at the vintage roaster that now sits unused, but still well-loved, in the corner. "Every summer once I was old enough, we'd try different beans from around the world. Mom thought it was a waste of time."

I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn't added that last part.

Lucy knows all about my complicated relationship with my mother, but I don't need to advertise it to the entire town.

"Mothers," Lucy says with an understanding nod and roll of her eyes. "Mine used to hint that I should 'put my creative talents to better use' working for my father's company."

She makes air quotes and rolls her eyes again, letting Connor rub her back.

I smile softly, then quickly shift gears. "Anyway, I'm testing some new blends for fall. Want to be my guinea pigs?"

They nod, and as I'm setting up small sample cups, the bell chimes again.

My grandfather, Walter, steps through the door wearing his Chapter & Grind baseball cap with the jauntily embroidered coffee bean logo.

At eighty-two, he still stands tall, his red and black flannel shirt seen better days, though his suspenders are perfectly aligned over his substantial belly.

"There's my superstar!" Grandpa Walt booms, his voice filling the cozy space. "I stopped by the grocery store, and Mrs. Henderson couldn't stop talking about your coffee. Said it wasbetter than that fancy stuff her son brings from Seattle." He winks at me. "You're becoming a real big shot, Emma-bean."

"Hi, Grandpa Walt," Lucy waves enthusiastically. "Emma's about to let us taste her new blends."

"Well now, that's a real honor," he says, sliding onto a stool with surprising agility for a man his age. "Don't tell your grandmother, but these taste tests are the highlight of my week."

"Grandma's been gone fifteen years, Grandpa," I remind him gently.

"And she'd still find a way to scold me for drinking too much caffeine after four," he chuckles.

I'm laughing at his familiar joke when movement outside the window catches my eye. My heart does that stupid little flutter thing it always does when none other than Logan Kane appears in my line of sight.

He's standing on the sidewalk, a towering wall of muscle in a simple black henley that stretches across his broad shoulders like it's hanging on for dear life.

At six-foot-five, he makes even Connor look average-sized.

The fading afternoon light catches on his dark black hair. It's short but somehow perpetually tousled, and the darkness highlights the scar running from his temple to his cheekbone.

We've worked closely enough for a few weeks now that I know the scar is a souvenir from some long-ago hockey fight that should make him look dangerous but somehow just makes him more... compelling.

His ocean-blue eyes are intense beneath dark brows, his jaw tight as he watches us laugh through the window.

Those eyes always surprise me—so vividly blue against his darker features, like something wild and unexpected hiding in plain sight. He has the kind of face that belongs on billboards but instead scowls from the penalty box of the Iron Ridge Icehawks. High cheekbones, a straight nose that's miraculously unbrokendespite his profession, and lips that are surprisingly full for someone so... hard everywhere else.

Not that I've spent time analyzing Logan Kane's lips.

Or the way his forearms flex when he crosses them over his chest.

Or how his thighs strain against worn denim.

Nope. Haven't noticed any of that.

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