Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
She steams milk with one hand, and the other briefly touches her silly badges—a nervous habit that I’ve come to find endearing. Her smile is as sunny as ever, but she still refuses to look directly at me.
“Sorry,” she says, “it’ll be about a five-minute wait for your Americano. We’re really busy this morning.”
I nod in easy agreement. I’ve become used to the bitter taste of the espresso, and I look forward to the daily black Americanos she makes for me.
I’ll make coffee for her tomorrow morning when she wakes up in my bed. I wonder how she takes it. Probably with copious heaps of sugar. Abigail does love her sweet drinks.
I’m watching her with more intensity than usual, willing her to make eye contact.
But she keeps her focus on her work. There’s something strange about her this morning, something strained about her smile. As she grinds the espresso for my drink, her lovely lips go slack, and her rosy cheeks are chalky.
She seems to move on autopilot as she places a finished flat white onto the counter in front of me—freshly prepared with pretty swan latte art for the customer before me.
“Abigail?” I prompt, concern deepening my tone. “Are you all right?”
She remains fixated on the swan, and she doesn’t answer me.
Her oddly blank expression disturbs me in a way I’ve never experienced before. My stomach dips, and my jaw tightens.
Boldly, I brush my fingers over the back of her hand to call her attention to me. I’ve never touched her at the café before, but something is wrong. I’m drawn to comfort my fragile little dove.
She gasps and yanks her hand away as though my touch has burned her. The jerky movement sends the flat white flying, and coffee splatters my crisp white shirt.
I can’t hold back a sharp curse at her sudden withdrawal, her rejection. I’ve wanted her for so long, and she’s cringing away from me.
“I’m so sorry!” She frantically turns to grab a clean cloth and rounds the espresso bar.
I stand in stunned silence for a full five seconds while she tries to blot away the brown stain on my shirt.
Abigail is touching me.
It’s the first time she’s willingly made contact with me since the night we met at the bar months ago. The rush of vicious, possessive pleasure is strong enough to make my muscles tighten like I’m under some invisible strain.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, delicate hands fluttering around my torso.
I can’t hold back any longer. I have to touch her again.
But she’s on edge about something this morning, so I force my fingers to remain gentle as I encircle her slender wrists. Her pulse races in response to our visceral connection. She must feel it too.
She wants this. She wants me.
I’ve known she desires me ever since she moaned my name while I hid under her bed. But the reality of her lust for me is heady enough to make me almost drunk on pleasure.
Those clear, stunning aqua eyes meet mine, and she goes utterly still.
“It’s fine,” I soothe.
But she doesn’t calm. Her pulse remains elevated, and she doesn’t seem to be drawing in full breaths. Her cheeks are still far too pale for my liking.
“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “Breathe, Abigail.”
“Oh my god, Dane!” Abigail’s colleague, Stacy, rudely interrupts the intense moment we’re sharing. “Are you all right?”
“It’s just coffee.” I shrug, eager to be rid of her irritating presence. “I have time to change before work.”
The last is meant for Abigail. She still seems distressed about the mishap.
I’ve been holding her wrists for too long. It will seem inappropriate if I maintain the tender contact, so I force myself to withdraw.
Her arms drop to her sides, and her shoulders slump like she’s barely keeping herself upright.
“Look at me, Abigail,” I command. I can’t stand how upset she is. Not on the day I anticipated her giddy excitement about our date tonight.
Her eyes snap to mine, and I keep her locked in my steady stare, anchoring her to me.
“It’s all right,” I promise again. I don’t want her to think I’m angry with her.
“But I might’ve burned you,” she protests.
I can’t resist an arrogant smirk. “I’ve had worse than anything you could throw at me.”
The idea that this delicate woman could every truly harm me is amusing. And it’s rather adorable that she’s so concerned about my well-being.
“But your shirt—”
“I have another one at work that I was going to wear after the gym.” I cut her off before she can spiral into anxiety over the mistake. “If you want to make it up to me, you can agree to go to dinner with me.”
Her pretty lips part, and for a moment, I anticipate her eager acceptance.
But she remains utterly quiet, and her breaths turn shallow again. Her eyes are still on mine, but her gaze is unfocused. The ground seems to shift under my feet, throwing me off-balance.