I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down the same spot for the third time, when he asks, “So, are you seeing anyone?”

The question catches me off guard, and I blurt out, “No,” before I can stop myself. I’m shocked at how easily the truth slips out. Normally, when a guy shows even a hint of interest, I throw up a wall, claiming I’ve got a boyfriend tucked away somewhere. It’s my go-to defense mechanism, a reflex to keep things simple. But with him? It’s like I’m under some kind of spell, my usual barriers crumbling without a fight.

He gives a slow, thoughtful nod, his piercing blue eyes locked on mine in a way that makes my stomach flip. “You gonna ask me what I want?” he says, his voice low and teasing, like he’s daring me to play along.

I’m hoping he’s talking about coffee. Or is he? My mind flashes back to Friday night, to the electric moment when it felt like we might’ve been on the verge of something. My fingers instinctively find the sapphire eternity ring on my left hand, a gift from my Nan for my twenty-first birthday three years ago. It was Granddad’s present to her decades ago, and now it’s my nervous tic, something I twirl whenever my heart starts racing—like right now. “What do you want?” I manage to ask, but my voice is shakier than I’d like. The confidence I had on Friday is nowhere to be found. I’m a total mess.

His eyes seem to darken, just a fraction, and I swear the air between us thickens. “An Americano,” he says smoothly. “Four shots, two sugars, filled halfway.”

I feel a pang of disappointment, which is absurd. What was I expecting? A declaration of undying love? Even more ridiculous is the fact that he’s back here at all. Last time, he took one sip of my coffee and declared it the worst he’d ever tasted. So why’s he giving me another shot? “I thought you hated my coffee,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, but there’s an edge to it.

“I did,” he replies bluntly, leaning back from the counter with a casual grace that makes my chest tighten. “But I’m willing to let you try again, Emma.”

My cheeks flush hot, and I hope to God he doesn’t notice. “You want me to redeem myself?” I ask, half-joking, half-hoping he’ll crack a smile.

His face stays serious, though, those blue eyes unwavering. “Exactly. Think you’re up for it?”

I should tell him to take a hike. Nan’s always saying I’ve got a rebellious streak buried somewhere deep, a “bad bone” she calls it. I should dig for it, channel it, and give him a piece of my mind for being so cocky. But instead, I mumble, “Okay,” and turn toward the coffee machine, which I’m certain is about to betray me. My hands are shaky, and I’m hyper-aware of his gaze following every move I make. It’s like I’m on stage, and he’s the only one in the audience.

I send a silent prayer to whatever coffee gods might be listening and start pulling the first of his four shots. My breathing’s all over the place, and I force myself to slow down, focusing on each step like it’s a high-stakes mission. I don’t care if it takes me an hour—I want this coffee to be perfect. Stupidly, I want *him* to like it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Lily’s head poking through the swing door to the kitchen. She’s got that nosy, excited look on her face, and I can practically feel her grinning from here. She’s dying to know what’s going on, probably itching to burst out and grill me. Part of me wants her to come out, to break this tense silence and give me someone safe to banter with. But another part—a bigger part—wants her to stay back there. I want to be alone with him, even if it’s terrifying. There’s something about him that pulls me in, like a magnet I can’t resist.

When the coffee’s finally done, I top off the takeaway cup and snap on the lid, turning to face him. He’s sitting at one of the tables now, looking unfairly gorgeous, and I realize I’ve already screwed up. He hasn’t even tasted it yet, and I’ve made a rookie mistake. “Would you rather have a proper cup?” I ask quickly, before he can point it out.

He glances at the cardboard cup in my hand, then back at me. “I’ll stick with the takeaway,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Might taste better this time.”

I’m not sure if he’s teasing or serious, but I walk over carefully, like I’m carrying a bomb instead of a coffee. The lid’s on tight, so there’s no real risk of spilling, but I’m not taking any chances. I hand it to him. “I hope you like it.”

“So do I,” he says, his tone unreadable as he gestures to the sofa across from him. “Sit with me.”

My heart does a little somersault. He pops the lid off and blows on the steaming coffee, his lips moving with this slow, deliberate grace that’s almost hypnotic. Everything about his mouth is like that—whether he’s talking or sipping or just sitting there, it’s like he’s drawing me in on purpose. He’s gorgeous, no question, but there’s this aloofness to him, a cool distance that only makes me more curious. He probably stops traffic wherever he goes.

He raises an eyebrow and nods at the sofa again, and before I know it, my legs are moving, carrying me to sit across from him. “So,” I say, trying to sound casual, “how’s the coffee?”

He takes a slow sip, and I brace myself, half-expecting him to grimace and spit it out. But he doesn’t. He gives a small nod, like he’s pleasantly surprised, and takes another sip. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, ridiculously relieved that he’s not gagging. “Not bad,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “You might’ve noticed I’m a little intrigued by you, Emma.”

I blink, thrown off. “Intrigued by me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “It’s pretty clear you’re intrigued by me, too.”

I laugh, but it’s more out of nerves than amusement. “Wow, you’re full of yourself, aren’t you?” I shoot back, trying to play it cool. “I bet you’ve got women lining up, all ‘intrigued’ by you. Do you invite them all for coffee?”

“Just you,” he says, and the way he looks at me—like I’m the only person in the room—makes my breath catch. It’s too intense, too much, and I have to look away for a second to collect myself.

But then a memory from Friday night pops into my head, and I force myself to meet his gaze again. “Who was that woman at the party?” I ask, not caring if it sounds nosy. He had no problem asking about my relationship status, so I figure I’m entitled to know his. The woman he was with looked way too comfortable to be just a colleague. I’m not holding my breath, but a tiny part of me hopes he’s single. It’s absurd to think someone like him would be available—and even more absurd that I want him to be available for *me*.

He tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding how much to reveal. “Just someone I know,” he says vaguely, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug, trying to play it off. “Just curious. You seemed… close.”

He smirks, like he’s enjoying my attempt at fishing for information. “Not as close as you’re thinking,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. “You’re the one I’m sitting here with, aren’t I?”

My face heats up again, and I’m not sure whether to be flattered or annoyed. He’s smooth, I’ll give him that. Too smooth, maybe. But there’s something about him that keeps me rooted to this sofa, hanging on to every word, every look. And as much as I hate to admit it, I’m hooked.