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 are way too 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 actual growl. 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 tattoos might be a Turkish mafia tattoo sported by certain inmates. The man in the beach booth told me it meant loyalty in 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.
“Slainte!”
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 instructions again, 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.”
“I noticed.” He stands close enough so that our shoulders rub. It was safer when we had the marble island between us. The man exudes too much masculinity. My breath catches in my throat, and I hope to God he doesn’t notice. “Watch.”
Feeling acutely aware of my own breathing, I watch him as he adds water and fills the portafilter.
“The key is setting the grind consistency.”
His warm forearm brushes against mine again, sending a jolt of tension through my body. Did he mean to do that? He has the forearms for cutting wood. Or aggressive fingering. Both are equally sexy.
I nod, trying not to feel the heat radiating from his body. I think I know where I’m messing up, but it’s hard to concentrate when he makes the art of coffee-making sexual. Talking about grinding in that low husky voice while accidentally brushing his arm against mine.
I try to absorb his words. It’s a coffee machine, for Christ’s sake. I can handle this.
But his eyes, as blue and stormy as the Atlantic Ocean, distract me. So now I’m a poet.
“The grind determines the intensity. When you grind for too long, the beans become too finely ground, and the coffee becomes bitter.”
This close, I see he has a scar running through one of his thick eyebrows.
“Are you listening?” He glares at me like I have the attention span of a fly.
Can he read my mind?
“Yes,” I say hastily, nodding. “Get the grinding right. Got it.”
His brow rises, unimpressed, as he turns to face me. I watch as he brings the coffee to his lips and takes a sip. Then he holds it under my nose. “Smell it.”
I lean forward, taking a deep sniff. Mmm, the scent of a real man. He hasn’t had a shower yet. My period is due. The last time I let my period hormones control the decisions, Liam happened.
“Now taste it.”
He doesn’t hand me the cup. Instead, he holds it to my lips.
As I take a sip, his eyes drift to my lips, triggering my pulse to race. It’s stronger than I usually drink. “Notes… of… nutty,” I waffle as I wipe drops from my chin.
“That’s what I need you to do every morning. Think you can handle it?”
“Got it, sir,” I reply with an edge to my voice before I catch myself.