Page 26 of Cream & Sugar

Enough, Shaun. This crush, or whatever it is, needs to fizzle out faster than a sparkler in a bucket of water. I thought I could ignoreit but today has proven otherwise. Besides, Anna is right—entertaining feelings for an employee is wrong.

There’s only one thing for it: I have to set firm boundaries.

After today, no more lifts home. No more getting mushy over Freddie’s charms. From now on, I’m his boss. Nothing more. This is how it has to be, as much as it hurts me to admit it.

I grab my coat and car keys and step out of the office.

Freddie’s waiting by one of the empty tables.

“Ready?” I ask. Freddie gives me a little salute and I nod, stiffly, deliberately avoiding those crystal blue eyes. “Then let’s go.”

9

Freddie

Shaun’scarisanicebox.

I wait in the passenger seat, teeth chattering, while he de-ices the front windscreen. Still, I’m not complaining. After my frigid sprint across town this morning in the dark, I was dreading having to walk home again.

At least Shaun believed my tiny fib about missing the bus. The truth—that I didn’t have enough cash to buy a ticket—was far too pathetic to admit. With the tips I earned today, it’s not like I have that problem anymore! But even with my pocket lined with a fat twenty, I’d rather get a lift home from my sexy boss. I guess this is one of those “employee benefits” I’ve heard so much about, though Anna did mention Shaun wasn’t in the habit of giving his staff a ride home. Guess that means I’m getting the special treatment.

Shaun finishes shifting the ice and clambers into the driver’s seat, shutting the door behind him.

“Right,” he turns on the engine. “Cherry Street, you said?”

I nod. “Not too out of your way, I hope?”

Shaun gives a small smile. “It’s fine.”

We pull away and drive off along the esplanade, the windscreen wipers squeaking as they struggle to keep up with the deluge of wetsleet. There aren’t many people on the pavement, but those who are look thoroughly miserable. One lady is fighting a losing battle with an inverted umbrella as the wind threatens to snatch it away. As we leave the rows of shops behind, a wave breaks over the sea wall, the spray reaching halfway across the street when it lands.

“Classic Scottish winter,” I observe.

“Mmm.”

“You said you’re from here? You don’t have much of an accent.”

“My folks are English. I sound more like them.”

“I see,” I say, before adding, “It’s a nice accent. I like it.”

Shaun doesn’t respond. He’s being oddly quiet. It could be he’s focusing on the road? I know Rory’s like that when he drives. Still, we go the entire length of the seafront without uttering another word.

We arrive at a crossroads just as the light turns red. Shaun slows the car down and, as he pushes the clutch, my eyes are drawn to his thigh. Now we’re sitting so close, I see it’s about twice the size of mine. This is undoubtedly a man who squats. What a perfect conversation starter.

I put on my flirting voice, which is basically just my normal voice but slower, and say, “So, Shaun, do you work out?”

The gearbox grinds as Shaun accidentally selects the wrong gear. He rectifies it quickly and clears his throat. “Um, I used to. Not so much time nowadays with the café. Why?”

His voice is laced with suspicion. I keep it cool.

“Just curious. The only person I’ve met with legs like that is my brother. He’s into bodybuilding; lives off chicken, rice, and protein shakes. You’d probably get on well, by the looks of you.” I look him up and down. “You have a really nice build.”

“Right.” Shaun shifts nervously in his seat. “Well, I played rugby at uni, but now I basically live off brownies and flat whites,” he glances sideways at me, “which are made with…?”

He’s changing the subject. That’s fine, I’ll bite.

“Espresso and steamed milk!” I rattle off, on autopilot.