Page 19 of Until the Storm Breaks

“Just a guy who really likes coffee.” But he’s looking at me, not the espresso, and there’s a slight smile on his face that makes me forget how to breathe normally.

“Let me get you some cash. A payment,” I say, already reaching for the register.

“No way.” He shakes his head firmly.

“Alright, at least a drink then. What do you like?”

He considers, leaning against the bar in a way that makes him look completely at home. “Surprise me.”

A challenge. I like challenges.

I make him a cortado, no fancy milk art, just perfect microfoam integrated with the espresso until it’s silk. The cup is warm in my hands as I slide it across to him. He picks it up, takes a sip, and his eyes close for just a second.

“Maren.” The way he says my name, soft and appreciative, sends warmth curling through me.

“Good?” I ask, trying to sound casual.

“Perfect, actually.” He takes another sip, and now he’s looking at me over the cup with an expression I can’t quite read. “The foam is exactly right. Most people overdo it.”

I grin. “Years of practice.”

We stand there, the bar empty except for us and Lark still pretending not to watch from across the room. The late light slants through the windows, catching the steam from his cup. I’m aware of every inch of space between us, of the way hisfingers wrap around the cup, how he’s drinking slowly, like he’s memorizing the taste.

He finishes the last sip and sets the cup down gently, almost reverently.

“I should go,” he says finally, though he doesn’t move yet.

“Thanks again. You saved the night.”

“Anytime.” His eyes flicker over my face. “If it breaks again, I’m usually at the house so you can just...”

“I’ll text,” I say, but it comes out softer than I intend.

He finishes the cortado in one last sip and sets the cup down. Toolbox in hand, he makes it to the door, then hesitates. When he turns back, the look in his eyes makes my breath catch. “That cortado really was perfect.”

Then he’s gone, the bell chiming his exit, and I’m standing behind the bar with a working espresso machine and the lingering scent of his cologne and the memory of his hands, careful and sure.

I grip the edge of the bar, trying to steady myself. My whole body feels electric, like I’ve been rewired along with the machine.

“Holy shit,” Lark says, materializing at my elbow like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “The tension. I could cut it with a bar knife.”

“Shut up.” But I’m smiling, can’t help it.

“He fixed your machine and looked at you like he wanted to fix a lot more than that,” she says, waggling her eyebrows.

“Shut up.” I bite my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot.He’s leaving soon. Remember that.

“Resources, Maren. I’m just saying. Resources.” She’s practically singing it.

I whip the bar towel at her, but she’s already moving.

She laughs, dodging it easily. “Hey! That’s bar property you’re throwing around!”

I’m in so much trouble. I shake my head, trying to clear theimage of Calvin’s hands on the machine, the way he said my name. But Lark’s watching me with that knowing look. Time to turn the tables.

“You know,” I say casually, while she goes back to opening chores, “for someone who keeps pushing me at Calvin, you’re awfully single yourself.”

“Bychoice, thank you very much,” she says without looking up.