Page 32 of Not That Ridiculous

I grabbed him when he went to walk past me. “You little shit. Don’t you dare make instant.” I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

“You’re such a coffee snob.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, and it isn’t. It’s good taste. And principles.”

At least when my customers drank my meticulously sourced beverages, they weren’t also sucking down the tears of children and exploited workers.

“Don’t want a coffee, anyway,” he said, and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. He was wearing cargo pants, and he had about twenty pockets to choose from, including a couple of pouch-like ones hanging from the side.

“What is this?” I reached out and poked one. “This has to be overkill. How many pockets do you even have? How many pockets can one man possibly need?”

“Lots,” he said. “I’ve got two front pockets, a phone pocket, couple of knee pockets for pads, two butt pockets, and two holster pockets. The one you’re fondling is a holster pocket.”

I snatched my hand back. “I’m notfondlingyour holster pocket.”

That sounded so rude.

And…yes. All right. Fine.

I had thought about Kevin in his work trousers once or twice.

I’d never found the construction worker type particularly appealing, but that wasn’t a surprise. I hadn’t spent any time sighing over policemen, paramedics, firemen, postmen or any other uniformed men. Outfits didn’t do it for me.

I’d certainly never looked twice at Craig Henderson in his work trousers, apart from that one time I threw him out because he came in covered in plaster dust and paint and thought it was all right to shake and slap it out all over my table and floor.

But Kevin, well.

He filled his out quite nicely.

“You can fondle me if you like,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t mind.”

“What? No. I don’t?—”

“You can fondle any of my pockets.”

“Will you please stop saying fondle?”

“Okay.” He tilted his head and thought for a moment. “You can caress any of my pockets.”

“Ugh. Kevin, no. I’m not interested in your pockets or in…that. Any of that. No.”

“Save the dirty talk for the bedroom, eh?” he said. “Gotcha.”

“That’s your idea of dirty talk?”

“No, but it’s you, so. I’m dialling it down. No need to bust out my best sexy moves standing here in your kitchen when you’re supposed to be making me a latte.”

Right. It was me. Charlie. Not one of his girlfriends.

Thank goodness.

And wait a minute… “Kevin, I’m not making you a latte.”

He smiled at me.

I waved my arms around. “I’ve just cleaned everything and shut down. I want to go home. If I make you one now, I’ll have to go through the cleaning process all over again. There’s rules.”

“I’ll come home with you and you can make me one there.” His eyes gleamed. “I can fix your cabinet doors while I’m waiting.”

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