Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157140 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
He shrugs one shoulder, his face back to his default ice-cold mask.
“She called me a drill sergeant the other day.”
“Oh, so I’m not the only one who noticed? Unbelievable.”
He rolls his sky-blue eyes with a low growl vibrating his huge chest.
For a second, I wonder if he’d make the same noise in very different circumstances. The pleasant kind where a woman frustrates him with more than words, where she drops to her knees and opens his pants and reaches in to find out just how big that ego is and—
“The point is I need another scorched drink by the end of this week,” he clips. “Show me you’re worth a senior salary and the two bonuses for the barista,” he says.
“Is that supposed to be intimidating?” If so, challenge accepted.
I fold my arms, staring defiantly at that grump-tastic face of his.
“There’s no way you’ll come up with another scorched drink this good in three days, no matter how talented you are.”
“Another dare? That might’ve worked to lure me in here, but now it’s getting boring.” I laugh bitterly. “Bad news, Grumpfather.”
“What?” He leans forward, his eyes shifting slowly side to side.
He was already too close to me. Now, I can smell him, hints of worn leather and citrus and something almost animalistic.
Lancaster makes it so hard to force him to eat his own words. Annoying.
And I hate that I kinda like the way he towers over me.
“Remember how I mentioned recipes—plural—in the interview?” I pause, waiting for him to nod. “I have like twenty pages of drinks like this.”
“Bull. Who keeps a recipe book full of scorched drinks?”
“Your big mouth new hire, apparently.”
“Let it go,” he whispers, pushing closer again, eyeing a few techs moving around us within earshot. “Naturally, I was joking.”
“I could, but y’know—I won’t.”
“I’m ordering you to let it go then.”
I laugh. “Ordering me?”
“As your boss, I’m suggesting in the strongest possible terms that you wipe that conversation from your head.” He glowers at me.
“Or what? You’ll like fire me already?”
“It would be a dreadful loss,” he says, all hot breath in my ear.
Oh, God, I’m tingling.
Tingling from head to toe as I lean into him.
We’re so close now it hurts.
We’re almost touching.
“Make the next one a speciality drink,” he says, inhaling slowly like he’s—wait, is he smelling me?
I don’t know how I keep standing.
“What?” I mouth silently because I can’t find my voice.
“I need a drink I can charge more for, Miss Angelo, like a mocha or latte. Since you’re bored with beginner challenges, perhaps you’ll find this more to your level.”
Oof. So maybe I was born with a big mouth after all.
“But—”
“Oh, so that’s not in the recipe book, is it?” His thin, arrogant smile could devour me. “Have fun. I’ll be back soon to try my mocha. Or will it be a latte or shaken drink? Surprise me.”
I’ve never wanted to kick another human being so badly.
Especially when his puffed up arrogance only makes him hotter in that evil villain way.
“See you then,” I say, forcing it out without a hint of fear.
“Really? You sound so confident?” He looks surprised.
“Everything I’ve ever come up with was in my living room, using secondhand equipment in a space no bigger than a closet. Now I’m in a beautiful lab with the best stuff mega-money can buy and three full days to experiment. There’s no reason I can’t have a new drink by Friday that’s so good you’ll whimper.”
Our eyes connect for what feels like forever.
I watch his muscular throat moving, swallowing, like he’s drinking me in. Or maybe he’s just checking whether or not I have a death wish.
“Make me cry then, Miss Angelo,” he throws back.
Then he turns and exits without another glance.
As he leaves, I realize we have an audience again. The lab techs are staring, but no one says anything.
Finally, Gina speaks. “That was—interesting. I see you already have a dynamic with the big boss.”
She’s too polite.
“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to distract anyone.”
Slowly, she adjusts her glasses. “...should I go talk him down, or will you really have something by Friday?”
“I’ll have something, all right. Trust me.” If it sucks, the taste test will just be more fun, I guess. “I just need a little time to hash it out,” I add.
I jog back to my cubicle and collapse in my office chair.
Why is it so hard for me to just shut up?
I’ve never had a good brain-to-mouth filter, but something about this guy makes me extra fluent in sarcasm.
Another screaming sign he’s trouble incarnate.
The kind you need to keep a good six feet away from at all times to remain healthy.
Even if he wasn’t my off-limits boss, I wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not if I had a functioning brain.
Do I still have one?
Sometimes, I wonder.
Eliza, you’ve been down this road before. You and classy older men swarming with secrets do not mix, my brain reminds me.