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)
I have a big coffee tasting coming up, and the timer just dinged for my taste batch. I just need to pack it up and get to the conference room.
I pull in a lady from the house staff and ask for a coffee urn.
She brings in the fanciest silver container I’ve ever seen. I transfer the coffee from the open pot I brewed it in.
“Can I please get some cups, too? And any chance you could put them in the conference room for me?” I’m not used to giving orders.
She nods respectfully. “I can do that. Do you think you can carry this? There’s plenty of auxiliary staff standing by if you can’t, per Mr. Lancaster’s instructions. He’s always very helpful.”
I blink.
“Lancaster helps the help?” I wonder out loud.
Whatever.
He’s still a rich man with a past, and you’d do well to remember it, a voice groans in the back of my head. You saw how he was practically drooling at you in your bikini. You’d be his toy. Nothing more.
She smiles and nods. “My family has worked here for generations. The Lancasters are good people.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got it.” I manage to haul the heavy container to the conference room one baby step at a time.
By the time I make it there ten minutes later, they already have the cups set out.
Cole—Mr. Lancaster, and I really should go back to calling him that—sends a man to take the urn from me and set it up in the middle of the table. Not long after, people start filing in for the meeting.
Ugh. How do I get through this?
It’s my first encounter with Lump since it happened. The jackass avoids making eye contact until he’s finished his daily briefing.
He looks at me without a whisper of tension. He just smiles warmly and says, “Eliza, do you want to do the honors? This is your creation, after all.”
“It’s self-serve,” I say coldly.
“And you should take the credit. It already smells divine.” The bright twinkle in his eye hints that he doesn’t just mean the coffee.
It takes major effort to keep the butterflies at bay. But I get up, take a paper cup, and start dispensing the coffee.
Once it’s half full of black liquid, I pass it to the bosshole.
He brings the small cup to his lips and takes a slow sip. “Delicious. The peaberry’s natural sweetness stands on its own, even with the added undertones.”
I keep my face neutral.
It feels like it might crack.
“Who knew R & D girls still played barista?” I joke.
Curiosity flashes across his face as he tilts his head, but he quickly snuffs it out.
“Form a line, people. That also means you, household staff,” he tells the crowd gathered in the room. “Everyone should come taste this brilliance.”
Awesome. Now I’m stuck playing barista for twenty people, but Cole helps, standing by to help pass out filled cups.
Everyone stops by later to tell me how delicious it is, how creative and hardworking I must be to have mastered this otherworldly beverage.
For my part, I stare at the floor, waiting for this meeting to be dismissed the same way you want a bad cold to end.
If Cole Lancaster wants to keep this strictly professional after kissing out my soul, fine.
Honestly, it’s probably for the best. I have zero interest in being another rich man’s anything.
But it might have been nice if he’d at least considered that before his tongue tormented mine and his hands grabbed my ass.
As soon as the meeting ends, I’m out, speed walking across the aged wooden floors so briskly the boards creak.
I also don’t stick around to debrief.
I’ve done my part in paradise.
Let Cole Lancaster figure out what the hell to do with his peaberry baby.
It’s his problem, and if I have any say in it, I won’t let him become mine.
“What if the problem isn’t that I don’t like him? What if he doesn’t like me?” I hold my breath, phone pressed to my ear, waiting for Dakota’s sage advice.
“That’s...not your problem,” she says sharply.
Yeah, not helpful.
“Oh! Wait. You mean you like him-like him?”
I don’t answer. She’s figured it out and there’s no point in adding to my disgrace.
“Does your boss—er, this guy—know?”
“Yes,” I say flatly.
“And he’s not interested?” Dakota’s voice sharpens. “Did the sea breeze go to his head? What the hell is wrong with him?”
If only we knew.
She laughs. “Tell me one thing. Are you sure he knows you’re interested? I mean, until I accidentally sent my man a dirty poem, he didn’t know for sure. If it wasn’t for that slip, who knows how long it would’ve taken him to make a move...”
I smile. Their romance feels like it happened a decade ago and it’s so sweet.
“Trust me, Dakota. He knows. He’d be an idiot to have any doubt...”
“Well, men often are.”
“This guy isn’t an idiot. He knows and he just doesn’t care. I think he regrets showing any interest and wants to keep things professional.”