Page 27 of Fifth Avenue Fling

“Mr. Quinn!” I squeak, nearly jumping out of my skin. I spin around to face him, feeling the blood rushing to my face. Why am I so damn skittish? I know he lives here, for God’s sake.

It’s just…

His frame fills the doorway, blocking off the oxygen supply in the kitchen.

Gray cotton sweatpants and a white T-shirt hug his hard lines and muscles. His hair is tousled with a fresh-out-of-bed look, and a slight crease marks his face from sleeping.

The sweatpants arewaytoo low-hanging, and I’m not sure he realizes it, or maybe he doesn’t give a fuck.

Sharing 5 a.m. is starting to feel very intimate.

“Good morning,” I chirp, with a businesslike nod. Too forced.

His stern gaze cuts to me. The kitchen felt airy before he blocked the doorway. Now I feel weighed down by his heavy gaze as he examines my vest top and yoga leggings.

I should have covered up the tattoos. He hates them.

“Is there a problem?” he growls. An actualgrowl. Maybe his vocal cords haven’t woken up.

I swallow thickly. “No. Coffee will be with you shortly. The manual didn’t mention a dress code,” I say, self-consciously. “I thought it would be best to wear comfy clothes to clean easily. You know, bend and get into the hard-to-reach areas.” I laugh nervously. “I can wear a maid’s outfit if you prefer.”

That gets his attention. Something flashes across his otherwise unreadable face. “I don’t need you to dress like a maid. Wear whatever’s comfortable.” His eyes move over me. “But cover your tattoos in front of my daughter. I don’t want her getting any ideas.”

“Sure.” What a grump. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

It’s probably not the best time to admit that one of my tattoosmightbe a Turkish mafia tattoo sported by certain inmates. The man in the beach booth told me it meantloyaltyin Turkish. Turns out, it means loyalty to a specific Turkish criminal organization.

Quinn takes a seat on a barstool at the island. I set the green protein smoothie on the counter with unnecessary force and slide it over to him. I don’t want to get too close in case he can smell fear.

“Slainté!”

I don’t know why I said that. It means cheers in Gaelic. It’s one of the only words I remember from school.

He ignores me and takes the glass. As he swallows, the prominent Adam’s apple in the thick column of his throat bobs up and down. He chugs the smoothie in one go. Impressive, considering I liquidized a bag of spinach and almonds. Smacking his glass down on the counter, he turns his attention to his phone.

“Was it okay?” I ask.

I take his grunt as approval and turn back to the most complicated machine in the world.

Flustered, I read the instructionsagain, adding another portafilter with coffee beans and water. This is attempt number six, maybe seven, but I don’t want to take out my reading pen in front of Quinn.

This coffee looks okay. Better than the last few attempts. I’d sneak a taste if he wasn’t sitting behind me. Instead, I turn around and place the cup in front of him.

He doesn’t look up. His dark brows knit together as he reads something on his phone that makes him angry.

I watch as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips and takes a sip. Our eyes lock as he sets the cup down with a thud.

I smile. “How is it?”

“The worst coffee I’ve ever had in my life,” he deadpans.

I wait for him to return the smile.

When he doesn’t, my eyes widen in horror, and my smile dies.

He exhales noisily and slides off the barstool. “I don’t care what you wear, but I need you to know how to make decent coffee.”

“Sorry,” I say, mortified, as he towers over me beside the machine. “I’m not used to this model.”

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