Page 188 of Double Daddies
“Just a black coffee,” he says, his voice smooth but commanding, like someone used to giving orders. No syrup, no milk, no nonsense. He’s not here for the experience; he’s herefor something else. Maybe the simplicity. Maybe an escape. I can relate with that.
“You got this one, kid?” Wyatt asks.
“Yes, sir,” I answer as he goes off to prepare another order.
My hands move automatically, but his eyes stay on me. There is something about him, about the way he holds himself, that draws me in. The faint hint of an expensive cologne that smells like a forest after a summer storm lingers in the air. It brings a sense of comfort, a feeling that I have met him somewhere before, even though I am sure that isn’t the case.
His gaze is intense, making my heart flutter in a way it hasn't for a long time. As I reach for a mug, I realize that he's not just watching me, but studying me. I can practically feel the questions radiating off him.
“Here's your coffee,” I murmur, sliding the cup across the counter. He catches it effortlessly, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest of moments. It's a simple touch, barely noticeable, but it sends a spark of electricity up my arm.
“Thank you,” he replies, his voice smooth like a cup of French press.
He lifts the coffee to his full lips, taking a slow sip as if to savor every drop. The corner of his mouth twitches, his gaze still locked on me.
“How is it?” I ask, my voice sounding distant and small.
“It's perfect,” he replies, setting the cup back down. “You know, I was told the coffee here was exceptional. I had to see for myself and I'm not disappointed.”
The compliment hangs in the air between us, heating my cheeks.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, unsure what else to do.
His gaze lingers on me for a moment longer, a subtle smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He grabs the mug, turning toward an empty table in the corner. As he sits, his eyes findme again. They're dark and intense, but there's a warmth behind them, pulling me in.
Instead of drooling over the customer, I busy myself wiping the counter again, pretending not to notice his presence. But it’s impossible not to. He’s like a storm that’s rolled into the calm of this café, disruptive and fascinating all at once.
He sits near the window, his posture perfect as he scrolls through his phone with an air of casual detachment. Yet, every so often, his eyes drift away from the screen, taking in his surroundings as though he’s measuring the weight of this tiny, inconsequential place.
I can’t help but watch him out of the corner of my eye, curiosity bubbling up despite myself.What is he doing here, in a café that barely makes ends meet?He doesn’t look like someone who stumbles anywhere by accident. And yet, here he is.
“Wren, can you grab more blueberry muffins from the back?” Wyatt chimes in next to me, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Of course.” I nod, dropping the cloth behind the counter as I make my way to the back refrigerator. The cool air hits my skin as I step inside, the chill chasing away the heat of the man’s gaze. I let out a breath as the tension in my shoulders releases.
My eyes wander the shelves, scanning for the muffins. I spot them on the top shelf and reach up, the fabric of my shirt riding up as I strain to reach. My fingertips graze the edge of the tray, but the damn thing refuses to budge. I bite back a curse and stretch further, balancing on my toes as I lean against the cold metal.
Why do they always put the good stuff out of reach? It's like the universe is conspiring against short people. Just grab the tray and go. No big deal. Except... why does this feel like a metaphor for my life right now?
I jump and finally manage to catch the edge of the tray, but it comes down in a rush and I feel my feet slip from under me.The muffins fall and I brace for impact, but it never comes. Large arms encircle my shoulders and stomach, forcing me to look into those damn green eyes that have been running rampant through my thoughts. He smells faintly of cedarwood and something warm, like bergamot—comforting and maddening all at once.
“Careful, sweetheart,” the man croons in my ear and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are. Even the faint sheen on his cufflinks catches my eye, distracting me just enough to lose my train of thought.
“How did you–” I begin, but the words die on my tongue.
“I saw you struggling as I was passing by on the way to the restroom. Fortunately, I caught you before you hit your head.”
I straighten quickly, backing up to put some distance between us when I step on a rogue muffin and find myself slipping again. He catches me by the waist, his suit brushing against my arms as he pulls me tightly against his hard chest. His grip is strong but careful, grounding me with every movement.
“Are you alright?”
“Oh, yeah. I’m fine. Workplace hazards.” I laugh, trying to loosen the knot in my throat."Get it together.I haven’t been touched in so long, and for some reason I’m not completely repulsed by it. The heat of his hands on me sends a shiver through me, and for a moment I lean into his touch. The tailored suit feels impossibly smooth against my skin, and I catch a glimpse of the faint pinstripes running down the fabric—subtle, elegant, and perfect, just like him.
“You’ve got quite the knack for slipping, don’t you?” he teases, his lips curving into a small smile that’s equal parts infuriating and irresistible.
I let out a nervous laugh, trying to ignore the way his cologne seems to wrap around me, pulling me into his orbit.Why does he have to smell so good? And why does he have to look likehe walked straight out of a magazine? Focus, Wren. He’s just being polite. Nothing more.
“Well, I like to keep things interesting,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “You know, keep people on their toes—literally.”
