Page 28 of Nine-Tenths

We spend the next hour testing the usefulness of Dav's firebreath. Dav has the ability to change the stream-width, but not the heat, according to the thermometer he keeps spitting on. We eventually decide a thin stream, hissed out between pursed lips like a whistle, is best. He can dance that over the beans, while shifting them around with his own fire-proof hand, making sure they get touched evenly. The experimenting is fun as hell. It reminds me of everything I liked best about my environmental bio labs.

And watching him actuallydoit is fuckinggorgeous.

I want to press my cheek between his shoulder blades, put my arms around his chest, feel him inhale, hear the click of the firelighter bones deep in his throat, feel the steady surge of his exhale. I don't touch him because first, I already know that he startles easily, and frankly, we're not burning down this kitchen again. And second,No, Colin.

Eventually the beans crack, and we crowd around the bowl like proud parents, cooing at the perfect color and the intense, smoky aroma. It's a shame we have to wait until tomorrow to taste it.

Chapter Nine

The coffee isdivine. It's smooth, and bitter in a floral, almondy way that sits beautifully on the tongue, thick on the finish, and fills my stomach with sunlight. Coffee is already the nectar of the gods, but this is a fuckingdelight.

"It tastes normal to me," Dav says the next morning, over his own cup.

"You have no palette then," I accuse. "This ismagic." I slurp down another hot mouthful. I don't care that it burns my tongue. Feels good. Feelsright.

"My palette is perfectly refined." He flicks his forked tongue out at me.

"Then maybe it's because you spent yesterday breathing fire and it's screwed up your tastebuds, but believe me, this is incredible."

I toss the rest of the coffee in my mug down my throat, and top myself up. It doesn't even need milk, or sugar, or anything fancy.

It's…

You know what it is?

This is finally a coffee thattastesthe way coffeesmells.

"So you like it, then?" he teases.

I shoot him my biggest, dopiest grin. "Keep making it like this, and I might just have to marry you," I say before my brain can throttle the conduit to my mouth.

Dav twitches once all over, like he's been shocked by a live wire, and then sends me a super-fake smile. "No, you wouldn't."

He retreats to the kitchen.

Well.

Huh.

That… happened.

Not sure what else to do, I stay on this side of the door to get the front in order, and drink the whole carafe of our test batch by myself.

Beanevolence goes through about two kilograms of coffee each day. These are individually roasted to different strengths. Each pot of drip coffee is ground as needed, but as the espresso takes more time, we do it by the jar. There's three long glass tubes attached to the wall of the bar-back with copper striping for the unground beans. Clear glass isn't preferable for storing beans, but as we usually use it all up within a day, the sun doesn't have the time to do any damage. And they look damn cool, like a mad scientist's lab. There's even a copper hand crank at the bottom of each tube to dole out the beans in pre-measured batches.

So, Dav has a lot of beans to work through to get us up to snuff. That's the excuse I give myself, anyway, for being too cowardlyto go into the kitchen and apologize for… whatever it is that offended him just now.

Around noon, he comes out front anyway, red-faced and winded.

"Yikes," I say. "Need a drink?"

"I've had quite enough coffee."

"Water, I meant." I set down the box of sweetener packets. I had been refilling the jars on the table where customers can personalize their drinks. Hadi provides four different kinds of sugar, including a rotational seasonal special. Personally, I do not get the appeal of dehydrated strawberry sugar in coffee, but it's a hit in July. "The water from the bar sink is drinkable."

I turn away quick when he helps himself to a glass. His waistcoat is missing. His topthreebuttons are undone. His face is lightly sheened with sweat and there are a few dark-red curls of chest hair peeking out of the vee of his shirt. His Adam’s apple islickable. I want to find out what dragon sweat tastes like.

He's endearingly, temptingly rumpled, his hair product melted away, leaving it floppy and damp. There's a peek of dusky rose nipple as he raises his arm and I just, I just want tobite it. Those bare forearms, the flex of strong fingers around the glass—I remember the feel of them through my shirt—I want those arms to hold me down—I want—