One Bossy Dare: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)
One Bossy Dare: Chapter 4

“Cole? Goddamn, it’s been a century and a half. Can you hear me, boss?” Troy’s tanned face fills my screen, his large sunglasses pulled low over his eyes and a messy smile hanging on his lips.

My Chief Operations Officer looks like he’s just rubbing it.

If only I could’ve handled sourcing overseas and let him take the Seattle role with its dreary weather. Then I’d be the one hanging out on beaches with a perpetual golden tan, and he could stay chained to a desk while rain washes out his windows.

Never mind the accident and the stew of bad memories.

There’s a lot of travel with his role. Jetting around the Pacific and South America wouldn’t have been any way for Destiny to grow up, especially after Aster died.

“I can hear you,” I say, hating that I still go tense when I hear his voice.

I used to love hearing from this man.

About as much as I enjoyed his friendship.

Now, his very existence stirs up this sick dread inside me, and I’m not sure why.

Maybe it’s the sun. The pristine beach behind him with its lapping waves in the background. The too-bright tropical drink in his hand, that neon-pink POG juice—pineapple, orange, and guava—and probably spiked with a splash of rum even when he’s on the clock.

Maybe it’s just the familiarity of those things. What should be a happy, carefree scene for anyone normal.

For me, it’s another reminder. Another swift descent into hell when I remember—

No. Don’t fucking go there.

Troy clears his throat. I’ve been staring at him like a manikin for too long.

A notebook flicks across the screen as he moves it from his left hand to his right. He leans forward, laser focused and quiet.

“So, the report…” he starts, flipping a few pages. “As I’m sure you saw, Sumatra Farms has upped production. We’ll hit three hundred thousand pounds this month—a new record and a damn good one, if I do say so myself—and we should only increase from there into peak growing season. I think by next quarter, we’ll be clearing over half a million pounds a month, easy. Do you want us to make a move on the land opportunities I reported last quarter, too? If we get those up and running, we could triple production next year.”

I don’t know why I’m frowning. Production has never been a major problem. Neither are our perfectly average beans harvested in bulk from sun-kissed island farms.

I’m getting antsy about that brew I tasted.

I need it.

I need her.

Technically, Wired Cup needs her, and I’m hopeful at least one of our bulk beans will fit for her magic.

“Cole? Everything okay?” Troy taps on his screen.

“Huh?” I blink at him.

“Do we need more acreage to boost production?”

“Whatever you think,” I say quickly. “That’s why I pay you the big bucks, isn’t it?” I force a smile, pretending we’re still old friends and not two awkward people pulled apart.

“Sure, sure.” His low chuckle is also forced. “Are you with me today, bossman? You seem distracted.”

Guilty as charged. And even if it’s been years since I had a real talk with Troy Clement, he still sees right through me.

“There’s been a development,” I say slowly. “I’m following up on an interesting lead for a new line of drinks to brighten up the brand. If this works, our fall flavors will be quite unlike anything we’ve previously brought to market.”

“Interesting.” Troy goes quiet for a second, his wide smile fading under the high tropical sun. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s a reset,” I tell him. “A gamble, if you will, on making our customers fall in love with our coffee again.”

“Uh, did something happen with sales I don’t know about? Are we in trouble? Am I ramping up production too much?” He reaches up and pulls down his shades, revealing eyes that gleam like silver mercury.

“No,” I throw back, my gut churning.

Why does he sound so panicked?

Like this isn’t the first time he’s questioning what the hell I’m doing?

“Sorry, Cole, but man, I guess I’m just not following…” He manages a strained smile. “If it’s not the market forcing our hand, then why change a sure thing? Aren’t we the best at what we do?”

I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers.

“What is it you think we do so well? This isn’t a trick question.”

Still, he hesitates.

“Serve up reliable cups of joe, of course,” he says finally. “Give the people a taste they can always count on.”

“And that’s the problem I’m addressing. Our drinks are almost too reliable, and it’s been that way since my father’s days. We’ve been coasting for more than a decade, always focusing on new ways to sell the same product. We’re leaving money on the table and the younger demographic behind. We’ve scaled up, certainly, but this company hasn’t taken a major risk for thirty years.”

He stares through me, clearly questioning my sanity without coming out and saying it.

“Troy, you went to business school. I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you that the bigger the risk, the better the reward.”

He nods and opens his mouth sluggishly like he wants to choose his words very carefully.

I’m realizing I’m not done, though.

“As the chief executive officer of this organization, I don’t expect blind faith. I do, however, need your trust. In time, I’ll elaborate my thoughts for senior leadership,” I say, my eyes searching his over the screen.

He offers up what looks like a genuine smile.

“Nice. You got this, boss. Have I ever doubted you in all the years I’ve been your main man away from the mainland?” He grins like I just laughed at his phrasing. I didn’t. “Anyway, if you’ve got your heart set on this new experiment, I’m behind it a hundred percent. Change is the only constant, Cole.”

Fuck, I hate hearing that from him, even if he’s absolutely right and trying to be reassuring.

The statement curdles my stomach.

There’s no good reason for it to be that way, but dammit, it is.

Apparently, I’ll never be over it in my own head.

No matter how pleasant, how smart, or how reassuring he tries to be, it can’t change the past.

Nothing can.

I’m still staring at the only senior officer who was on that trip that upended my life.

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up before anyone else, Troy. Production is critical and you’ve always been too loyal to be left out of the loop. I’ll check in at the first chance, once I know how this new line might require changes in logistics and sourcing. For now, I’m signing off for another meeting. Keep me updated. If we need to Zoom again, schedule it through Katelyn.”

He logs off with a smile before I can end it.

I make a note to remind Kate I won’t be available for Zoom calls anytime soon.

Damn him, he’s right, though.

Change is a constant, and a fucking terrible one.

Once, there was a time when Troy was my best friend, back before I had to man up and focus on work and parenting without letting a personal apocalypse consume me.

Once, we were inseparable. Just two guys with easy laughs and mile-high dreams of making this tired old company something new and glamorous and special. But two things happened when Aster told me she was pregnant—first I saw my whole life flash before my eyes. Then I decided to own it and grow up.

Troy never did. Not even after he witnessed the freight train that came crashing through my life.

The last time we talked like friends, he was a guest in my Kona house. And I had no idea that my family was about to be pulverized forever.

Ten Years Ago

Destiny looks so adorable in her little sundress.

She’s cradling a large doll in her arms, the weight of it bouncing wildly in her chubby arms.

“Shh! Shhhhhh!” She rocks it back and forth like a baby that’s barely bigger than her. “I love you,” she whispers and kisses its head.

“Hey, baby girl. That’s my line.” I scoop my daughter up from the floor with a giggle falling out of her and hold her to my chest. “I love you more.”

“Daddy!” she squeals as I show her no doll will ever compare to my love for her.

I kiss her on the head the same way she kissed the doll.

She giggles again.

“Jesus, Cole. Don’t get her so worked up. She’s been bouncing off the walls all day.” Aster rolls over on the couch, practically boneless, her head half-buried under the pillow.

Ever since we came to Kona, my wife has had Dess to look after twenty-four seven. The last nanny—the one we hired expressly for the Kona trip—only stayed for two weeks, which boggles my mind.

How many nannies would give up a free trip to Hawaii?

Evidently the kind who aren’t resistant to being chewed out by my wife.

It’s the depression talking, I know. I’ve had years to develop a thick skin when she goes off on her moody tirades.

The drugs and therapists and natural remedies we’ve spent a small fortune on have helped, but nothing totally cures her storms when they strike.

I’ve learned how to let them roll off my shoulders.

Regrettably, the nannies haven’t.

Thankfully, she’s never turned that attitude on our daughter. I just hate that it robs Aster away from key moments when she could be enjoying our little girl, her laughter and play and sweetness.

Dess cuddles up to me, a perfectly content bundle.

How can anyone be annoyed by this? My baby girl seemed calm the whole day, but I had to take several meetings. Maybe Aster saw something I missed in her sensitive state, or maybe—

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. I go answer it with Destiny perched on my hip.

“Hey, Troy. Come on in.”

He’s damn near sunburned, looking like a college kid roughing it with his red skin and overgrown beard. His pearly white teeth beam at me as he walks in with a bulging duffel bag thrown over his shoulder.

“Thanks a million for letting me crash here, man. Beats the hell out of huffing it back to the sardine box room on the coffee farm.”

“No problem. Your tub flooded, you said? Christ.” I shake my head. “The hotel’s usually a decent stay. Make sure you let HR know when you get home so they can start scouting new places to send my employees when we make these trips. We could use a backup. I know how tight it gets in the peak season. Still, I don’t want my people having to deal with that after a long flight. It’s nothing to have you staying here with us, but of course I can’t open our place to everybody.”

He smiles knowingly. “I get it. I’m lucky you like me and you’re not just signing my checks.”

“Yeah, even if I still can’t figure out why,” I joke, slapping him on the back.

He winces. I realize I hit his sunburned shoulders and mutter an apology.

Aster shuffles up to the door. A rarity when she’s been trying all day to nap.

She never greets me at the door, even at home.

“Oh, hi, Troy.”

His eyes land on my wife. He greets her with the same almost goofy grin.

“Whoa. Aster, you look lovely tonight—” His eyes flick to me. “Doesn’t she, Cole? Lucky, lucky man.”

I offer her a respectful grin.

“She always does. No surprise.” I appreciate the hint. Things have been rougher than usual with Aster lately, and Troy was always more of a ladies’ man than me. Never shy about reminding a girl she’s beautiful, even if he knows full well she’s off limits.

“You know, I could use something for the headache. I’ll go make us some drinks,” Aster says matter-of-factly, giving me the first smile I’ve seen on her face all day.

“Let me give you a hand. Last time in Maui, the place I stayed had this swim-up bar with a cool twist on mai tais,” Troy says.

“You guys go ahead. I’ll keep the kiddo occupied.” I back away, letting him set his stuff down and head into the kitchen.

Aster looks at me and smiles over her shoulder as she follows him. “Thank you, Cole. I appreciate it.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. If it’s too hard on you, we can look for another nanny when we get back home,” I tell her.

“Sure.” She disappears into the kitchen to make drinks with Troy.

I slump down on the living room floor and play dolls with Dess, working through my range of bad, exaggerated cartoon voices and accents that make her laugh.

They’re gone longer than I expect, but Aster comes back holding a hefty silver tray of cocktails. There’s also a little mocktail with pineapple juice for Destiny in a sippy cup.

Dess grins and bounces up at the chance to be a “big girl.”

Her mom hands her the cup.

She wraps both her little hands around it—she tries, anyway—but the goblet slips out of her hand and splatters against the marble floor.

“Oh my God!” Aster screams, the pleasant look on her face gone in a red-faced flash. She looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Do you see? Now do you see why we can’t have another nanny quit on us?”

“Mama, I’m sorry!” Destiny bursts into tears.

“Aster, it was just an accident,” I say tightly. “Kids spill things all the time. Let me get it.”

I start moving toward the storage closet. I can still feel my wife glaring like it’s all my fault.

Fuck. These are the times when it’s hard to remember she’s sick, and not just being an asshole for the sake of assholery.

“Yeah, well, it’s easy for you to say when you’re not stuck at home every day with one walking accident after the next. I wish I had your company to manage,” Aster mutters.

Destiny wails louder, her little voice trembling. “P-pwease d-don’t be mad, Mommy. P-pretty pwese?”

Troy, lifesaver that he is, emerges from the kitchen with a roll of paper towels. I reach to tear off a handful and he bends down next to me, helping clean the mess.

“Hey, don’t worry about it, Cole. I’ve got this. It’s the least I can do,” he says with a wink.

We’re head-to-head, blotting up the liquid and buffing the floor.

Once it’s gone, I lift Dess in my arms, squeezing her gently so she knows it’s not her fault.

I try like hell not to feel embarrassed.

Mostly, I feel horrible about Troy walking into our shitty family dynamic. There’s a guest in my house cleaning up an accident made by my kid, all while her mom goes ballistic over nothing.

This isn’t Troy’s mess.

He shouldn’t have to clean it up.

Still, I know he’s just trying to play peacemaker, the good friend, because the women in my life are such high-maintenance. Though only one little lady does it gracefully.

Shit.

When we get back to the mainland, I’ve got to get Aster another nanny who can handle Aster’s moods—even if I have to pay through the nose to put up with the rudeness. In her condition, my wife can’t handle running after a small child all day. Deep down, I know she loves Dess just as much as I do.

I’m going to recommend a new round of counseling, too. There’s a new psychiatrist from Phoenix who supposedly works miracles with light therapy and behavioral conditioning. If I have to fly him in for Aster once a week, so be it.

All kids spill things. They shouldn’t have to worry about their parents hating them when mommy can’t control her outbursts.

I won’t give up, no matter how many messes I get to clean up.

Even if our entire marriage was almost predestined and arranged by family ties, I want to believe I can love her.

I can fall back in love with Aster, somehow.

If only so I can be the father and husband and shepherd my family deserves.

Present

That was the last time.

The last argument.

The last time believing I could ever patch the holes in my family.

There wasn’t a chance to get Dess a rock-solid nanny and there was no counseling when we got back to Seattle. Aster didn’t make it that far.

Fuck, my head is throbbing.

I rip open my desk drawer and fumble around for the Tylenol bottle, tossing a couple pills down my gullet.

I know better than to let these memories wash over me, especially when they’re triggered so easily by an old face I should’ve been prepared for.

They always leave me with a drumming headache. I go to the coffee machine on my sideboard, pop in a Wired Cup capsule, and pour two espresso shots to chase the painkillers.

The combination might not be optimal, but right now it’s strong coffee or a proper drink.

Because Troy Clement is absolutely right, no matter what bad memories he dredges up.

Change is the only constant. Ever.

The change I need next is a bold new coffee that makes Wired Cup a brand people talk about again. I want people who have never stepped foot in our stores screeching about the campfire coffee on social media. I want my great grandpa’s legacy reborn.

My team just needs to figure out how to make it happen.

I pick up the office phone and call Katelyn.

“Hey, Mr. Lancaster. What do you need?” she answers, cheerful as ever.

“Have we landed an interview with our new friend yet?”

“She can’t come in before seven p.m.”

My brows lift. “Why so late?”

“Ah, that. I couldn’t get an answer out of her. She just said that if you wanted to see her, that’s the only time she has available.” There’s a heavy pause on Kate’s end. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Tell her I’ll see her at seven. Today. Thank you.” I slam the phone back in its cradle with my eyes flicking to the red-and-white pill bottle again.

I just wonder how big my headache will be by the time I’m done with this strange, infuriatingly gorgeous woman and the pile of absolute bullshit she seems determined to shovel into my life.

A little after six, Kate comes strolling into my office.

The click of her heels doesn’t feel like a mallet against my skull. The headache is better.

“Are you sure you don’t want me or someone from HR to stick around?” she asks.

“Not necessary. I can handle a simple interview. I don’t need either of you working so late to accommodate this little cactus. Go home to your family,” I say.

“Mr. Lancaster—” She hesitates.

Damn. What am I in trouble for now?

“…it’s just highly unusual to conduct an interview so informally this late. I worry her motives might be less than pure. If you don’t have someone sitting in, it’s going to be difficult to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” I cock my head.

“Erm—well—your very blunt tongue. What if you set her off like you did at the store?”

I throw back my head and laugh.

“Katelyn, please. I’ve handled a thousand interviews in my day. I can handle this night owl who wants to pluck out my tongue, too, but I appreciate your concern.”

“Badger.” She clears her throat. “Um, that’s the animal Destiny gave her, right?”

I sigh. “I don’t care what her spirit animal is. I just want to get this over with.”

“Sounds like a hint someone should stay. Just to keep you on your toes, y’know?” She flashes a strained smile.

“I don’t need a damn babysitter. I’ve got this.”

“Sorry. If you insist—”

“I do.” I throw her a heavy look. “For the last time, go home. Feed your kids and husband.”

“Where’s Destiny? You’re usually not here this late. Has she eaten yet?”

I hold back a smile.

Annoying or not, I remember why I have the best staff when Kate Storm cares this much about my daughter.

I’m not sure Destiny and I ever would’ve come through Aster’s demise as well as we have without my team.

“I told her it’s pizza night with her friends. Thanks, though,” I say.

“I gotcha, boss. Okay, I’m out. Good luck!”

I have exactly two minutes to brace for that siren with her honey-sweet eyes and a spear for a tongue.

Then Eliza sails into my office wearing mildly faded jeans and a flannel button-down shirt. She looks like she just stepped off a shift at a wood mill.

Nice interview-wear. You look like a Pearl Jam fan circa 1990, I think bitterly.

Still, the fact that I agreed to speak with her this late tells her I’m willing to make certain accommodations if she can work her coffee magic.

I haven’t said a word, raking her with a silent, assessing look.

I’m braced for her attitude today.

Only, she’s so quiet today.

Her jaw drops slightly as her eyes move from my wall of windows to the aged wood molding above it. She inhales deeply and smiles like she doesn’t want to rip out my throat.

Are we making progress?

Her eyes scan up and down, flicking to the window wall and back to me again. “At least you look the part.”

“Pardon?” I snap.

“You know…stuck-up prince in his ivory tower, so above us mortals.” Her eyes move just above my head.

Hell. She’s found my grandfather’s trophies—a ghost from his time in this seat that I never had the heart to take down—even if I’m not particularly fond of his big game trophies.

“…is that real ivory? Holy hell. Don’t tell me you’re a poacher on top of everything else?”

Everything else? What did I do besides bark shit at her in the store?

Damn, I knew this wouldn’t be easy.

I’ve only known this woman for ten minutes while she berated me in my own coffee shop, and this joke of an interview isn’t starting off much better.

I try to soften my glare, nearly biting my tongue off.

“My late grandfather’s touch. They were mounted to the wall almost sixty years ago and never removed. Times were different then. Rest assured, chasing exotic animals isn’t my thing. I’ve donated millions to zoos and wildlife sanctuaries.” I don’t even know why I offer up that last part.

“Sixty years, huh?”

Yeah. I stare through her.

She thinks she’s an untouchable coffee badass, all because she roasted a decent brew?

This place oozes history across generations.

“I suspect you already know Wired Cup started with my great-great-grandfather, Winslow Lancaster, back when it was Noble Bean. We’ve been in this city for almost a hundred years—”

“Wow. Did gramps have a trophy wife to go along with his dead animals? I guess you had to come from somewhere…”

The mouth on her.

My eyes snap to her plush lips, far too aware of how tightly they purse when she looks at me.

Oh, hell. I shouldn’t be so hard, but my body isn’t used to such lip or having it come from a spitfire who looks like this.

The things I could do to shut her up in another time and place…

“For the record, the first endangered species didn’t come out until 1967—”

“Yeah, good excuse,” she interrupts. “I hunt puppy dogs and string their teeth since they’re not endangered.”

Looks like I didn’t need my executive assistant or someone from HR to stay. I should have had someone from security sit in on the off chance she’s serious. This chick seems more psychotic by the second.

“Really? I suppose that explains the weekly missing dog posters I see tacked up in my shops then,” I tell her, pulling at my tie.

Her face falls.

“I was joking. Prick,” she adds under her breath.

“No need to make my dead grandfather part of your comedy routine. He’s been gone for twelve years.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“What? That stuck-up princes have feelings and families?” I drum my fingers against my desk.

She’s quiet for a few heady seconds, and I wonder if she’s about to get up and walk out.

“Yeah, that. I guess.” She pauses and looks down before meeting me with those big brown eyes again. “Sorry, can we try again?”

Can we?

At least she’s honest and able to apply brakes to that attitude.

“Yes. If you’ll start by telling me where you learned to make coffee like that concentrate you left in my store.”

She folds her arms and leans forward.

“I could tell you, but…that’s kind of my ace in the hole, isn’t it? The whole reason you invited me in? I’m not sure why I should give up my source so easily…”

I swallow my frustration. My eyes are locked on hers and that smug little half smile.

“Do you know how job interviews typically work, Miss Angelo? I ask questions, and you answer. Preferably with ten times less snark.”

She nods slowly. “Yeah, but I’ve never had an interview with a man who stole my intellectual property before we even agreed to meet.”

Stole? Has she talked to an IP attorney?

“I’m not asserting any claim to ownership, even if your drink was negligently left on my property. I never cross certain ethical lines, whether you choose to believe me or not. You’ll be fairly compensated—generously compensated, in fact—for any IP we agree to license or buy outright from you.”

She looks at me for a tense second and then bursts into a fit of laughter.

“What now?” I bite off.

“You should have seen the look on your face. You were all—” She forms her mouth into an “oh” and presses a palm to each cheek. “You looked like the kid from Home Alone.”

Badger witch.

“Are you done with playground insults? Hell, I called you in to let you know I’m not holding our personal tiff against you—quite the contrary.”

“It wasn’t personal,” she throws back.

I blink at her. “What the hell would you call it then?”

She rolls her eyes and gives me a tired look. “I was annoyed at the way you treated an employee. If you want me to work for you, Lancaster, that rocky start isn’t personal. It’s a harbinger of things to come.”

I glare at her, trying to understand.

She sighs. “If you always talk to hardworking baristas like that, then you’ll talk to me the same way. But I’m not Wayne. I don’t have a sick mother whose meds I desperately need to cover, so I won’t put up with any crap. If I hate it here, I’m gone. I’d rather wind up homeless than deal with a bosshole. No big deal when I already hang out there anyway.”

My brain tingles with questions like the pinprick pain after taking a blow to the face.

“Breathe, Miss Angelo. I’m no bosshole, so you can relax. Not most of the time, anyway,” I growl.

Her eyes go to the ceiling like she’s holding in more crap.

“Prove it.”

“My employees are like family. Ask any of them. You don’t even know me,” I say, though I’m already feeling like what she called me. Bosshole.

And did she say that guy’s working to pay for his mom’s medicine? What kind of short-fused jackass am I, making him fear for his job?

Of course, I didn’t really do anything, though.

The coffee sucked and I told him. I also made it clear that it wasn’t his fault.

She shrugs. “Family? Wow, you’re serious, aren’t you? I’ve never had a cup of coffee with ’family’ who berated me for it being as exciting as iced water.”

I frown.

“You probably also don’t pay your family an average of eighteen dollars an hour to make your coffee. Wayne was never singled out—and again, his job is perfectly secure. When my own daughter has room for improvement, I point it out. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. It just means she can do better—and so can this company.”

“That makes a little sense. Still, I’m not sure I want to be contractually obligated to do better and answer to your attitude. So, you might want to consider that before this goes any further…”

The way she leans forward presses that flannel against her chest.

It’s pure hell keeping my gaze bolted to the challenge in her eyes, and not skipping down to her tits.

“You realize I’m the boss, right?” I ask quietly.

“You realize I haven’t signed anything?”

Touché.

Maybe I should just buy the existing recipe for a soul-crushing sum and send her on her merry way. She’s a firecracker, and the one I already have in my life still has to draw the line because I put a roof over her head.

Steepling my fingers, I try to cough up one last ounce of patience to deal with this woman without another screaming match. “Do you have other coffees like that drink I found?”

“Like what?”

“Like the campfire scorched brew,” I say.

“Oh, I have tons of recipes. They’re all filed away for when I come back to them later or finally have a reason to put them to good use. What are you looking for?” she asks, caution in her tone.

Fuck. The way she hints at a litany of flavors means I do need her in my lab.

“A new taste to put the spark back in Wired Cup, Miss Angelo,” I say sharply, not giving a damn whether she replaces the pun cheesy or not. “That’s why you’re here today. If you’re formally hired, your friend will get the bonus he was promised, and you’ll get an additional sign-on bonus as well, for starters.”

She shrugs. “Eh, you can give mine to Wayne. If I take the job, that is, but I’m not convinced yet that working for you would be worth it.”

My hand balls into a fist.

How is it this girl struts in here and bothers to pretend she cares about this interview when money clearly doesn’t move her?

“Why are you so intent on helping Mr. Wayne? Is he your boyfriend?” And why do I suddenly get this jealous inkling in my blood? This urge to send Wayne packing to an Oregon store with his mother’s needs taken care of? Somewhere far away from Badger girl?

“He’s my friend. He critiques my coffee. Also, he needs it more than I do.”

“Critique? I thought you didn’t need to do better?” I bite off.

“Well, his feedback is a lot different from yours. He knows coffee about as well as I do,” she says matter-of-factly.

I roll my eyes, a habit I must have picked up from Destiny.

“We own a significant chunk of the finest volcanic soil for growing coffee across seven different countries. Why do you keep saying I don’t know my bean?” I demand, leaning forward.

“Because. There was nothing wrong with the cup Wayne made that you had such a problem with.”

“I told you, it wasn’t his fault. It also wasn’t anything to write home about,” I snarl.

“I mean…the people who pop into Wired Cup for a pickup order aren’t looking to rave about their handcrafted coffee, right? They just need a fresh cup to stay awake.”

Again, she puts our whole brand into words I wish weren’t accurate.

“And I’m hoping you can help change that.”

“I can,” she says flippantly. “But do I want to?”

I glare, hating that I like her confidence.

“My coffee would shake up your brand. But I haven’t said I’ll let it. And there’s one more thing you should know if you think you want me to work for you…” She trails off.

“What’s that? Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“I’ve thought it over and I’m just not fit to work in an office. I’m too stir-crazy. I can’t handle being hunched over spreadsheets in a cubicle, even if you pay me in solid gold.”

“You’re a VA. Isn’t it the same kind of work?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “How did you know that?”

“Destiny looked you up online to help me prepare for the interview. I also had my executive assistant pull your background.”

“Whatever. Well, VAs do that work, but for me, it’s only temporary and always remote. And part-time. I have a short attention span for screens. If it isn’t coffee, I’m easily bored.” She looks away and sighs before meeting my eyes again. “To you, I’m sure that’s a huge flaw. To me, it’s normal.”

I lean back in my chair, swiveling away slightly as I catch the tiny hint of worry that creases her face the longer I’m silent.

“So it’s a problem—” she starts, but I cut her off.

“You don’t need to worry about that here, Miss Angelo. You’ll be getting your hands dirty exclusively in the lab.”

“Lab?” she echoes.

“The research and development department is in the basement of this very building. They have a state-of-the-art laboratory set up, complete with a mock storefront to see how practical roasts are for the retail shops.”

She gasps.

Goddamn. Why does that sound have my fingers grasping the edge of my desk, shocked by how sexual it seems in my ears?

“Wait. You want me to work in an actual lab, trying out new brews all day, and…you’ll pay me for that?” Her voice goes low, quiet, suspicious.

I relax, swiveling to face her again.

Now that I’ve got her attention…

“A hundred and twenty-five thousand to start. Based on your experience, you’d qualify for a little more than our average senior development technician,” I say.

The amber shimmer in her eyes when they catch the light annoys me, the dreams flaring in those wide, soulful eyes. I can’t peel my gaze off her, dammit.

She mouths the number to herself again, her eyes going wide.

“Very funny. Now what’s the catch?” she asks.

“Catch?” I repeat.

“This is too good to be true. There’s always some awful fine print, isn’t there?”

“It’s not that good, and there’s no hidden risk, I assure you.” I pause, staring at her seriously, enjoying this talk with a human being rather than a walking attitude. “You make damn good coffee, Eliza Angelo. My company needs damn good coffee. Putting you in a cubicle would be a disservice to us both. If you can refine what was in that mason jar for commercial use, you’ll have ample leeway to experiment to your heart’s content. This company will even consider acquiring distinct brews from you at an additional licensing fee to compensate you for your talent.”

She leans back in her chair with a loud breath. Her shoulders relax for the first time since she walked in.

“Wow. I’ll admit that it sounds like a dream come true. Maybe I should quit calling you a spoiled prince?” There’s that damnably sarcastic grin of hers again.

“That would be wise,” I whisper.

“But you were Prince Jerkwad to Wayne.”

“The not-boyfriend you keep mentioning every other sentence?” I tease, then instantly regret it.

“If only you weren’t coffee shop Satan.” A second later, she stuffs her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. Not out loud.”

I snort.

“With everything else you’ve said, that’s the last thing you should apologize for. I’ll let it slide this time—if you tell me what the hell it is you want.”

She looks down with a rolling shrug.

“Well. You’re offering me something I’ve never even dreamed of. I didn’t think such a job—basically doing my hobby, for pay—even existed. The other shoe has to drop sometime.”

“You’re right,” I snap off, loving the startled flicker in her eyes. “Here’s that shoe coming down on you like a bug—you’ll be reporting directly to me. I’ll expect weekly updates.”

For a second, she’s frozen in abject horror.

I wonder if I’ve pushed my luck too far when she slumps back. It’s like part of her soul left her body in that sigh.

“I can’t do it,” she whispers, standing up abruptly and heading for the door.

“You can!” I growl after her.

Her hand is on the door handle when she turns to look at me.

“Why? Why should I sell myself out for you?” she hisses.

“Because I dare you, Miss Angelo.” I step forward, rounding my desk. I don’t stop moving until we’re barely an inch apart and I’m leering down at her. “I dare you to step outside your comfort zone, for once. You’re not a risk taker. You’re a creature of habit, and it’s a goddamned shame that you let that hold you back from your full worth.”

The anger on her face fades as she swallows loudly.

For the briefest second, my senses roam her. I devour her shape, her scent, and that soft mahogany glow in her eyes that’s so magnetic I have to work to keep my gaze there. If she were any closer, my teeth would be buried in that soft pink bottom lip she juts out, severe and conflicted.

Doesn’t she understand just how fucking hard this is for me, too?

“Swallow for me,” I growl, quickly adding, “Swallow your damn pride, I mean. And I assure you, I’ll do the same, Miss Angelo. Work with me for even a few months. Share your gift. Get paid handsomely.”

I want so badly to reach out—to touch her—but I fuse my hands into my pockets.

Her face reddens. She looks at me with something like humility.

I’ve never seen anyone nod so slowly.

Hell, I half expect her to lunge at me and slap me across the face—here’s your deal—but instead, she lifts her chin and says, “Two.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Two hundred thousand dollars. I consider that fair compensation for putting up with—well, you, Cole Lancaster.”

Maybe she’s right. My sudden smile certainly makes me feel like the fucking devil.

“Done, Miss Angelo.”

Without a startled double take, she looks at me in grim silence.

I like the way this girl operates.

I also enjoy the way my name rolls off her barbed tongue.

Why do I get the terrible feeling that a sick part of me won’t mind being scratched raw by her words a few more times?