Page 15 of Triple Tidings
Unfortunately, Wells isn’t the most cooperative. “You just hit your head; you’re not getting me shit,” he grumbles. “Besides, no offense, but the coffee here is terrible.”
My mouth falls open. “What! No it’s not!” When people pay upward of five hundred dollars for a room, they expect everything to be the very best quality, and don’t hesitate to tell you if something doesn’t meet standard. We’ve always used the same brand, and not once, in over ten years, has a guest had a bad thing to say about it.
“Your supplier is over-roasting. It’s easy to avoid, if you have half a brain.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh of protest. “Oh come on, coffee is coffee, isn’t it?”
Wells pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “Christ, Lacey. I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Okay then, mister expert.” I raise my eyebrows, “Who should we be buying from?”
“Me,” he grunts, shooting me a withering look. “I’ll even give it to you for the same price you’re paying the current idiots.”
My mouth pops open. “I didn’t know you roasted your own coffee!” I’ve seen The Stack’s branded bags of coffee sitting beside the little coffee counter in the shop, but I’d thought that was as far as Wells’ business went. It’s not a huge store, after all, and most of the space is dedicated to the books.
That comment has him looking away with a noncommittal shrug, a hint of color in his cheeks as he diverts his gaze to the fire crackling in the hearth. “We rented a warehouse just outside of town and have been moving into more of that. The antique store next door is closing when its lease is up. We’re going to open a wall and have a full-service café.”
“What! That’s so cool! Congratulations, Wells, or…” I laugh uncomfortably. Now it’s my turn to blush. “Mr. Davis. I’m so sorry, I really shouldn’t be so unprofessional. You’re a guest.”
This has Wells looking back at me, his lips pressed into a flat, annoyed line. “If you call me Mr. Davis again, I’ll check out. How’s that, honey?”
My heart kicks into overdrive.
Honey.
I’ve been called that before, mostly by patronizing old men who come to work or stay at The Chestnut, or my grandparents. When Wells Davis says it, however, it’s different. Different, as in definitely not cute or patronizing, and kind of hot.
Letting out an unsteady breath, I shift in my chair, hyperaware of the tightening of the muscles below my navel and the weight of Wells’ unapologetic stare. We’re sitting ten feetapart, separated by an antique coffee table, and in the middle of my place of employment.
What is wrong with me? IsworeI wasn’t going to do this again, but apparently, that resolution doesn’t stop my dumb, horny brain from wondering what he would do if I got to my feet and walked across the lobby to straddle his lap. Would he like that? Would he put his hands on me? Would he let me grind down against—oh my god. I have a freaking problem.
I’m on the verge of getting up to return to my desk, because it’s so clearly time to redraw some professional boundaries, when the front door opens yet again. Wells and I both turn, watching as August moves into the room with a gust of icy air.
My nipples were already hard, but this definitely doesn’t help the situation. Nor does the effect it has on me when August looks around, his eyes finding the pair of us. Even from here, I can see his throat working to swallow as he lowers his gaze at last, closing the door behind him.
By the time he turns back to us, I’m on my feet, flushed and unsteady, but with my well-practiced, professional smile in place. “Good afternoon, Doctor Vogel,” I chirp, stepping out from behind the coffee table. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Cocoa?”
“August is fine,” he corrects me, glancing at the back of Wells’ head. “And I’m okay. I had coffee while I was out.”
Does that mean hedidgo to The Stack? I hadn’t wanted to ask Wells directly, but dear lord, I’m dying for some information here. Strangely, I’m kind of rooting for them, even as the possibility of them picking up where they left off, leaving me to my lonely, obviously horny existence, makes me want to shrivel up.
Wells stands, turning to face August. They stare at each other, then, almost simultaneously, look back at me.
What on god’s green earth is happening right now?
With a nervous, fluttery little laugh, I take a step back. “Well, please let me know if either of you needs anything. Just ring the bell or call down. Whatever?—”
“You shouldn’t be working right now,” Wells interjects, frowning at me. He looks back to August. “She hit her head on the desk a minute ago. You should take a look at her.”
Oh shit, I totally forgot about that.
I attempt to wave this off. “Oh my gosh, it was nothing, I’m fine.”
August, predictably, ignores this, his expression grave as he draws forward. “You don’t want to mess around with head injuries,” he informs me, and I can barely stifle my gasp as his hands find my waist, lifting me right up onto the desk like I weigh nothing.
Oh my god, why was that so hot?
“It’s not a head injury,” I stammer, watching him pull out his phone and turn on the flashlight. “It was just a bonk.”
