Page 8 of Nine-Tenths

Rounding the corner, I'm both relieved and horrified to see there's only one person waiting. Shit. I've totally screwed the morning rush. That's hundreds of bucks Hadi is out.

Hard fail.

Then my stomach swoops, because it’shim.The guy I’d thought, for a hopeful split-second, had been at the bar last night.

Now is not the time to be kicking yourself.

Now is the time to open the goddamn door, and make some coffee, and steal some of the weapons-grade painkillersHadi keeps in her desk. Hangover headaches are the worst. The fact that I did it to myself makes it even worse-er. Worser? Whatever, I hurt too much right now to care whether that's a real word or not.

Worser-er than even that is that I look like something that crawled out from under my bed, and he looks unfairly delicious.

He’s in his usual uniform: a button-down, and a matched tailored-within-an-inch-of-its-life waistcoat and dress pants. This time it’s the hunter green with the yellow oversized check and matching shirt. Flattering, but not my fave of his looks.

The newspaper under his arm is in French today. He looks slightly desperate for his caffe tobio. That’s a short pull of espresso doppio'd into drip-coffee in equal amounts. Hard core. If I didn't know what he was, I'd say it was a macho drink ordered to intimidate, like dudes who eat hot sauce that's too spicy to look cool. But who knows what caffeine does to people like him? Maybe coffee alone isn't enough to give him his morning perk. Maybe he just likes the taste.

"Sorry," I say, as I swoop in.

The split-tongue steps back, gesturing to the door. This close to him, I can tell he's got that weird aftershave on. It's smoky-amber, with musky deep undertones of fermenting grapes that one field trip too many to peninsula wineries has tattooed on my brain.

"You're late—" he starts, and I shouldn't call him a split-tongue, even in my own head. It's not polite; it's verging on a slur, really. Being hungover is no excuse for meanness. Especially since he doesn't actually lisp.

What he does do is talk in a skin-tinglingly precise accent that’s British in the vowels and hard Canadian on the consonants. It’s arresting, and lyrical. He even rolls his 'r's a little and, okay, Ihavewondered how you get a forked tongue to do that. The point is, it's the kind of accent no one else has had in decades. Maybe centuries, I don't know.

I mean, I have no idea what the dude's name is, let alone his age. Kind of a rude thing to ask.

"I'm aware," I grunt.

"Allow me—" It takes me a second to realize he's trying to get at the door to, what, open it for me? Like some sort of romantic hero?

Oh, no.

No.

That's cute.

That will not do.

This close, I can feel his body heat , and my brain is seriously not online enough to separate last night's fantasies from reality, and arrggggh, it’s too early for this.

"I got it," I say, a bit stronger than is polite.

His eyes snap wide. This close, the sunflower yellow of them is flecked with sparks of warm amber. He blinks a few times, the gold-leaffreckles that dance across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose getting lost in a mortified flush.

Shit, I'm being an asshole.

"Sorry," I say again. "Can you just… let me actually unlock it?"

He stands there, all handsome and forlorn. "I thought you might be ill—"

I drag my under-caffeinated gaze from his mouth—this close I can see that the upper peak of his lips are so perfectly shaped they look like they've been tattooed there. I don't think I've ever seen his elegant face composed into anything except a politely thoughtful expression of near-nothingness, sort of like if resting bitch face had a refined older brother. But now he looks hang-dog.

I want coffee.

I want him to back off.

(I want to kiss him.)

I'msohungover.