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)
When the clouds peel back like curtains and the sun pierces them at just the right moment, I’m always in awe.
But nothing could compare to the brilliant double rainbow exploding across the sky right now.
The huge multicolored bridge spans the entire ocean in neon ribbons from east to west.
Grinning like a fool, I grind fresh peaberry beans and start the best brew of my life.
I’ve pushed the recipe closer to perfection over the last few days, using a lower flame for a longer brewing time.
This won’t be a fifteen-dollar cup of coffee by the time I’m through. More like twenty-five bucks of absolute luxury.
The scarcity of the peaberries isn’t the only thing commanding a higher price tag. Process adds a premium.
Each batch of this stuff takes at least twice as long to brew as a more basic bean.
And I don’t mind the longish brewing time when it lets me flop down on my lounge chair and remember the way Cole kissed me—when Dess barging in was the only reason that encounter stayed PG-13—and then vanished for three days and counting.
Hi, I’m an idiot. Nice to meet you.
Seriously.
You’d think I would have learned my lesson the last time a skeezy older man played racquetball with my heart, but apparently I’m a sucker for punishment. Or is it a chump for Lump?
Same old heart trap, and I walked right into the snare. Again.
Thinking about Derek feels like summoning the devil. The saddest moments of my life replay like a cringe compilation video.
My chest burns.
All the peaberry sweetness and double rainbows in the world can’t make up for the way I let that wretched man crawl up inside me.
Two Years Ago
I’m sitting behind my desk at this god-awful legal firm—just a three-week temp job, thank God—when he strolls in.
I look up like I feel a presence.
Of course, I do.
He’s that kind of man, the sort who holds a room spellbound the second he enters.
Thick blond hair tumbles around his face like a mane, framing those pale-blue eyes. His three-piece suit hangs perfectly off his body. He looks like the hero in every cheesy rom-com movie ever made—only, there’s nothing funny about the way his eyes rake over me.
“So Michael finally traded in his secretary? I approve of the upgrade,” he says with a self-assured smile.
What else can I do but smile back? “Oh, I’m just the temp. Lydia’s out on maternity leave.”
“Could you let him know I’m here? Derek Stevens.”
“Will do.” I pick up the phone and call the attorney’s office. Voicemail. “I think he’s in a meeting, Mr. Stevens. I’m getting his voicemail. Would you like a coffee while you wait?”
“That would be stellar,” he says.
“Any particular flavor?”
“There’s a menu now?” He grins like a movie star. “Damn, lady, you are a big improvement.”
“Personal pet peeve.” I clear my throat. “I can’t stand the canned stuff in the break room, so I brought a couple fresh blends I roasted myself...”
Oh, how those blue eyes ignite with surprise.
“Impressive. Anything’s fine, really,” he says with a friendly nod. I feel his eyes linger as I turn around and hear him call, “I don’t suppose I could convince a beautiful new lady to have one with me while I wait? Or would that be asking too much?”
Oh, God.
This isn’t me.
I can’t believe how I smile back at him over my shoulder. I never smile at strange men who hit on me in public.
Let’s blame it on the sexy eyes and million-dollar good looks.
I brew up two cups of Madagascar vanilla in no time. When he takes his first sip, his head falls back and he groans. I almost have to look away when he pinches his thigh like he’s dreaming.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, his eyes snapping to mine. “You said you’re a temp, Miss—?”
“Eliza,” I offer.
And that’s how he offers me a job I decline, laughing the whole time.
But it gets us talking for almost an hour until Michael finally emerges from his office with a scowl left by his conference call.
By the end of our conversation, a few things are clear.
Derek is seventeen years older than me.
He owns a major film company with a degree from UCLA, and he despises Hollywood so much he only flies back there from his hometown, Seattle, whenever he absolutely must.
He admires my big café dreams, even when I turn down his office job.
He also walks away with my number, and he calls me that night.
We don’t have coffee again.
Instead, we bond over a three-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne at one of the finest oyster bars in the city, and then in a lavish hotel room overlooking Elliott Bay.
After that, we’re rarely apart.
He’s a busy man—even when he’s not traveling—and he tells me the high-end rooms are just so he can escape and clear his head. They’re his special oasis with a special lady, where he can be the special man he tells special me I totally deserve.