Page 10 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

“Back here.” I lead him behind the bar, my voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that Calvin Midnight just checked me out and then got embarrassed about it.

The space behind the bar is narrow, barely meant for two people. As I walk back to the machine, I’m hyperaware of him following, of how close he has to stand in the cramped workspace.

“This is it,” I say unnecessarily, gesturing at the very obvious espresso machine. “Our problem child.”

He sets his toolbox on the counter with a metallic thunk, then leans in to examine the machine. The movement brings him closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine as he runs his fingers along the front panel, checking for obvious issues.

“When did it stop working?” he asks, all business now, but his voice sounds rougher than usual.

“A little over an hour ago. Just died mid-pull.” My voice sounds too high. I clear my throat. I’m hyperaware of every inch between us, how his cologne is absolutely intoxicating this close, how I can feel the heat radiating from his arm.

Lark has made herself scarce, suddenly very interested in organizing the liquor shelves at the far end of the bar, but I can feel her watching us like we’re her personal soap opera.

Calvin sets his hands on the machine, examining it like he’s diagnosing a sick friend. His fingers trace over the buttons and panels with confidence.

I watch him work, mesmerized by the way his hands move.

The light from the windows catches on his watch, and when he reaches deep inside the machine, his shirt pulls across his shoulders and I have to look away before I do something embarrassing.

He diagnoses the problem in minutes (it is in fact the thermal fuse) and starts fixing it with the kind of focus that makes me forget Lark is even in the room.

“Want a beer?” I ask. “Or water?” I need to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like touch his shoulder.

“Water would be good.” He doesn’t look up, entirely absorbed in the machine’s guts.

I grab a glass, add ice, listen to it crack and settle. When I set it near him, our fingers brush as he reaches for it. He pauses, just for a heartbeat, before taking a sip, and I watch his throat work, which is absolutely ridiculous but here we are.

The silence stretches, filled with the tiny sounds of his work. Metal on metal, the soft grunt he makes when something’s stubborn. I reorganize the cup stack, anything to keep my hands busy.

“You really know what you’re doing,” I say, just to say something.

“Spent too much time taking one of these apart in grad school,” he says, not looking up. “Well, not an industrial one like this. But I found a decent home model at a garage sale and fixed it up. They all work pretty much the same way underneath.”

“Still impressive.” I lean against the counter, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he works.

“Just puzzles with caffeine at the end.” He adjusts something inside the machine.

The machine suddenly hums to life, display lighting up in a cascade of blue lights.

“Oh my god.” I actually bounce a little, forgetting to play it cool. “It’s alive!”

“Try it now,” he says, stepping back, and there’s definitely amusement in his eyes now.

I grab the portafilter, fill it with our house espresso, tamp it down with probably more focus than necessary because he’s watching.

The machine purrs as I lock it in place, and when I start the pull, it sounds perfect.

The stream of espresso is gorgeous, that perfect tiger-striping of crema that makes coffee people weep.

The smell fills the space between us, rich and dark and promising.

“You’re a genius,” I say, and mean it. I’m grinning like an idiot, high on caffeine fumes and relief.

“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 his fingers 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 the image 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.”

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

“There are literally dozens of guys who come in here just to flirt with you,” I point out, leaning against the counter.

“Ugh, I know.” She makes a face, pointing her knife at me before going back to cutting prep. “That contractor last week left his number on a napkin. With a winky face. Who does that?”

“Someone shooting their shot?” I ask.

“More like shooting themselves in the foot. He was weird.” But she’s laughing.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should try. Get back out there.

” Her voice drops a little. “But sometimes I still catch myself about to ask permission for the stupidest things. Like ordering a different coffee, or wearing a dress that shows my shoulders. Three years of Brandon really messed with my head.”

The shift makes me set down the glass I’m polishing. “Brandon was a controlling asshole.”

“Yeah, well. That controlling asshole had me convinced I was lucky he put up with me.” She abandons the prep, leaning against the bar. I notice how her shoulders tighten at just saying his name. “Six months out and I’m still figuring out what I actually like versus what I was allowed to like.”

The truth about Lark’s marriage still makes me want to key her ex’s truck.

He’d found her at twenty-one, told her she was ‘perfect just as she was,’ then spent three years training her to be smaller.

The possessive type who’d check her phone, hate her friends, accuse her of cheating every time she worked late.

I walk around the bar to her side, putting my hands on her shoulders.

“Listen to me. You’re brilliant, funny, gorgeous, and you can deadlift more than most of the guys who come in here.

Not to mention an amazing singer who’ll be famous when you get out of your own way.

Brandon was threatened by all of that. That’s on him, not you. ”

“I know that logically—”

“No, really know it. That contractor with the winky face? The gym guys who forget how to count reps when you walk by? They see what Brandon was too insecure to handle. You’re the full package, Lark. Don’t let his voice in your head tell you otherwise.”

She blinks hard, looks away toward the bottles lined up behind the bar. “Damn it, don’t make me cry before we open.”

“I mean it. You’re basically the only reason this place runs smoothly. You’re the best friend anyone could ask for. And when you’re ready to date again, whoever you choose is going to be lucky as hell.”

“Careful,” she says, but her voice is thick. “You’re going to give me delusions of adequacy.”

I squeeze her shoulders. “You should have all the confidence in the world. You’re amazing, Lark. Own it.”

She laughs, a watery sound. I can see her physically pulling herself together, straightening her spine.

“Besides,” I add, trying to lighten the moment, “if we ever decide to give up on men altogether, we’ll just become old biddies who run this bar and read romance novels like Eleanor.”

Lark snorts, wiping her eyes. “Live in a place with a dozen cats?”

“All named after different cheeses. We’ll be legends.”

“Sadly, I think you and I are both too much of hopeless romantics for that.” She shakes her head, picks up her knife again, movements steadier now. “We’ll keep believing in the fairytale even when all evidence suggests we should know better.”

“Probably true.” I hate that my mind goes to Calvin.

She goes back to her prep work, the rhythm of her cutting more confident now.

“Okay, enough feelings. Since I’m benched from the dating game, you’re my only source of romantic entertainment.

” Her grin turns wicked again, back to safer territory.

“So really, you need to do something about Professor Coffee Guy for both our sakes.”

“Like I said, we’re just sharing a kitchen.”

“Right. And he just rushed over here with his toolbox and his forearms and his cologne because he’s really passionate about espresso machines.”

I roll my eyes and move to start counting the register. Through the windows, I can see the sun starting to drop lower, painting everything in warmer tones. We need to finish prep soon, but my mind won’t stop drifting back to him.

Yeah. I’m definitely in so much trouble.