Page 15 of Loving Josy
Sitting in my truck, I grab my phone and fire off a text to Esteban and Austin.
Me: She’s going to kill me before this project is done. Pray for me.
Esteban: Was she mad that it was you who showed up?
Me: Mad? Oh yeah, she was pissed. But she kept it cool, didn’t say much.
Austin: What are you guys talking about?
Esteban: Josy wants us to remodel the building she leased for her new coffee shop. She asked me to go and give her a quote.
Austin: And I’m guessing Noah was the one who actually showed up.
Me: Yup. Esteban conveniently "couldn’t make it," so I stepped in.
Esteban: Hey, you needed the opportunity, and I was just helping a brother out.
Austin: So, what’s the plan now?
Me: I’m gonna make sure this project gets done right. I’ve got four weeks to win her over, and I’m not wasting a second.
Esteban: Just don’t screw it up, man. She’s not going to make it easy for you.
Austin: Yeah, Josy’s tough, but if anyone can break through her walls, it’s you.
Me: I’m counting on it. This is my shot, and I’m not backing down.
Chapter Seven
Josy
After Noah leaves, I finally allow myself to take a deep breath, the first since I laid eyes on him. God, he looked so good today, wearing that signature black T-shirt that molds perfectly to his chest, showing off every inch of his sculpted muscles. His black pants and work boots only added to his rugged charm, and the black ball cap he had turned backward—it should be illegal to look that good just to go to work.
The second I opened the door and saw him standing there with that infuriatingly beautiful smile, I was thrown off balance. I should have known Esteban wouldn’t show up and would send Noah in his place. Esteban can be a pain like that, and it’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do to mess with me. But if I’m honest with myself, deep down I wanted Noah to be the one who came.
As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something about him that still gets under my skin in a way no one else does. I can’t stand how easily he flusters me, how his presence alone makes my heart race. It’s infuriating, really. But at the same time, there’s a part of me that craves it, that craves him. After all this time, I still feel the same attraction that I have always felt for him. I hate that he knows it too, that he can see right through my defenses no matter how hard I try to keep him out.
I don’t understand why I can’t move on. Why do I compare every man to Noah? I’ve never even kissed him. I don’t know what it feels like to run my fingers through his hair, to touch his face, or to feel his lips on mine. It’s ridiculous, really. I’ve dated, I’ve had fun, but I’ve never felt this pull toward anyone else. No one else has ever made my heart race the way Noah does, and that’s what makes it so frustrating. How can someone I’ve never even been with have such a hold on me?
I walk around the empty space, trying to shake off the lingering tension from our encounter. I can still feel the heat of his gaze, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in that moment. It’s unnerving how easily he can do that, how he can make me feel like I’m losing control.
But I can’t let him get to me. I won’t. This is business, nothing more. I hired him—or rather, Esteban—to renovate this space, and that’s where our relationship ends. I have to keep reminding myself of that, even if every part of me is screaming for more.
I stop in the middle of the room and close my eyes, forcing myself to focus. This place is going to be amazing when it’s done, and I can’t afford to let Noah’s presence derail my plans. This is about creating something special, something that’s mine. I’ve worked too hard to let my feelings for Noah complicate things.
But as I take another deep breath, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I’m fighting a losing battle.
Today has been an absolute whirlwind. Violet’s social media campaign offering a free pastry with every coffee has turned my quaint shop into a chaotic carnival. It’s thrilling, of course, to see so many faces crowding the counter, but I hadn’t anticipated thislevel of madness. Edna has been baking nonstop since sunrise, the poor woman resembling a frazzled whirlwind of flour and exhaustion.
As for me? I probably look no better. Every surface of my apron is splattered with some mysterious combination of batter and frosting. My hair, which started the day tucked neatly into a net, has rebelled with curls springing out like they’re auditioning for their own pastry commercial.
Finally, the lunchtime crowd thins, granting us a much-needed breather. I duck into the restroom, shutting the door behind me, and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror.Oh, Josy.My cheeks are flushed, strands of hair cling to my forehead, and a streak of what looks suspiciously like raspberry filling is smeared across my jaw. Lovely.
I scrub my hands vigorously, fixing my curls into a semblance of order and wiping at the rogue filling. As I smooth my apron, I mutter to myself, “Professionalism, Josy. You own a coffee shop, not a food fight arena.”
Satisfied that I’m somewhat presentable, I open the door and step out and straight into what feels like a brick wall. A warm, solid, very human brick wall.
“Noah,” I hiss, my stomach flipping as I meet his eyes. His hands are on my shoulders, steadying me like I’m some delicate porcelain doll instead of the flustered, flour-covered mess I am.
