Page 10 of Loverboy
“Never mind,” I say quickly.
“Seriously?” Posy's eyes narrow. “You’re thirty-five years old, and you still hear sexual innuendo everywhere?”
“Thirty-six. And it’s just the way I’m made. Carry on.”
Teagan—the girl who’s supposed to be leaving—snickers.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Posy demands of her.
“Yeah. But it’s more fun watching him learn to make espresso drinks.” She gives me a wink. “Maybe we’ll work together next week.”
“Hope so,” I say cheerfully. Because that will mean that Posy hasn’t fired me yet.
Although I think she’d like to. Her eyes turn to slits as Teagan and I engage in some low-key flirting before the woman finally heads out the door.
“Can you pay attention to what we’re doing, Loverboy?” Posy asks, and the question is full of vinegar.
“I was already paying attention,” I promise. “I haven’t missed a thing. Let’s see you put it into—” I gesture vaguely toward the machine. “—The thinger dinger.”
“Thethinger dinger?” She gives me a sideways glance.
“At Joe’s Cafe we always joked around,” I say smoothly.
Posy sighs. Then she glides toward the espresso machine, lifting one smooth arm to fit the filter arm into one of the espresso machine’s ports.
The assignment is a cupcake, Duff had told me. I’m starting to see why. The Italian coffee machine is beautiful, and so is the woman using it. It’s her confidence that always used to turn me on. I like the way she manhandles the part into place.
Is barista porn a thing? I'll have to check it out tonight on pornhub. I could learn a few tricks and get off at the same time.
Two birds, one stone.
Posy flips the switch, and the machine hums as espresso begins to fill the cup. “Our standard pour for a latte or a cappuccino is two ounces. Every drink is a double.”
“Two ounces. Sure. That’s how we did things at Joe’s.”
A few seconds later she flips off the machine, plucks the cup off the ledge and hands it to me.
“Beautiful.” I peer into the cup, taking care to note the depth of the coffee in the cup.
“Aren't you going to taste it?” She asks when I hand it back.
God, no. “It smells great,” I say, and I guess that’s true. The scent of coffee is so much better than the taste. “I was waiting until after you fizzle the milk.”
“Fizzle. What do they teach baristas in California?” She grabs a little metal jug and shows it to me. "We use about a nine ounce pour for a latte." She grabs a gallon of milk out of a reach-in fridge below the bar. Then she tips it into a metal jug with the practiced ease of someone who does this a lot.
“Nine ounces,” I repeat. “Don’t you want to measure those out one at a time?”
“What? That would take forev—” she stops abruptly and levels me with a glare. “Very funny. But I’ve learned a few things in the last fifteen years, Gunnar.”
“Me too, gorgeous. Maybe I can show you sometime.” The ridiculous words just fall out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I meant behind the bar. Carry on. I’m ready for the swirly milk part.”
She gives me another dubious look and continues the job.
Then things start to happen faster than I can absorb. “Purge the steamer arm.” She turns a knob and the machine makes a loud squawk. “And go.” She twists something, and the arm begins to hiss and shriek. Posy holds the jug in a way that makes it hard for me to see. But mere seconds later she shuts it off, wipes it with a towel, somehow makes it hiss again, then whacks the jug on the counter twice.
And all the while she’s speaking a string of coffee lingo. She says something about foam and temperature and “polishing” the milk.
“You could do a heart or a fern, whatever design you have nailed,” she says inexplicably. She’s pouring the milk and twisting the cup and talking a blue streak. “Andvoila.”
