Page 9 of Until the Storm Breaks (The Midnight Men #1)

MAREN

The late afternoon light slants through the Black Lantern’s front windows, catching in the glassware behind the bar.

I should be focused on the till, but my mind drifts, the columns of numbers blurring until I realize I’ve been staring too long.

I shake myself, count through the cash again, and glance down at my phone. Battery’s in the red.

“Of course,” I mutter, setting it aside.

“I’ll be right back,” I call over to Lark. “Running home real quick! I forgot my charger.”

“Sounds good,” she says, rinsing pint glasses at the sink.

The air outside is soft and mild, a perfect late-summer afternoon. The walk to my cabin is an easy one, down a gravel path lined with fir and cedar, the faint tang of salt in the breeze. My shoulders loosen as I go, the noise of the bar fading behind me.

As I near the cabins, movement on the big house porch catches my eye.

Calvin’s there with a tool belt slung low, bent over a loose board on the porch.

His shirt is off, draped over the railing, and sawdust clings to his hair in pale streaks.

The muscles in his arms flex with every swing of the hammer, veins rising beneath his skin, his whole body lean and strong in a way that makes it impossible to look away.

I should keep going, grab the charger, and get back to work. There’s inventory to count, orders to place, a dozen things demanding my attention more than Calvin Midnight with a hammer in his hand.

But I don’t move.

His back is broad, tapered to a narrow waist, each movement controlled. He works like someone who’s done this his whole life, and there’s something unshakably masculine about the way he takes up the space around him, like he belongs here without question.

He pauses mid-swing, as if he can feel me watching. When he turns, our eyes lock across the yard. Maybe sixty feet, but feels more like six inches. The distance doesn’t matter when he’s looking at me like that.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just studies me like he’s working out a problem he can’t solve, and I might be the answer he wasn’t looking for. His is gaze steady enough to make my pulse trip in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere at once.

What would happen if I walked over there? If I offered him water, asked what he was fixing, or admitted I’ve been thinking about him since seven this morning, when I heard him moving around in his cabin, probably grading papers or doing whatever brooding professors do in the dark?

Laila bounds up just then, tail wagging, nudging my hand. The spell breaks. Calvin turns back to his work. I give her a quick pat, duck inside my cabin for the charger, and then practically run back to the bar, heat rising in my face, pulse hammering.

Two days later, the espresso machine chooses the worst possible moment to die. It’s three hours before we open, with a wedding party who called to give us a heads-up they’re coming tonight.

“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter, pressing buttons that do nothing. The machine sits there, expensive and useless, its digital display mockingly blank. I can smell the remnants of this morning’s last successful pull, now just a ghost of coffee haunting the air.

“Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?” Lark asks from where she’s slicing lemons, her knife moving in perfect rhythm. “That’s literally the extent of my technical knowledge, so if that doesn’t work, I’m out of ideas.”

“Three times. Plus I checked the water line, the power cord, and said a prayer to the coffee gods.” I crouch down to check the water line again, my knees protesting against the rubber mat. “The repair guy can’t come until Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? But we need it for the espresso martinis tonight. That wedding party specifically requested them.”

“I know. The universe has a sick sense of humor.” I stand up, brushing dust off my knees. “I’ll figure something out.”

“Wait. Didn’t you say Calvin is a coffee guy? And he’s handy?” Her grin turns wicked. “I mean, based on what you told me after you practically drooled watching him work on the house.”

“I shouldn’t have told you that.” Heat rises to my face. I duck back under the counter, pretending to check connections I’ve already checked twice.

“Oh, you absolutely should have. Text him. He’s just down the road!”

“No way.” The suggestion makes my pulse jump.

“Maren. Come on. Be reasonable,” Lark says, using her manager voice.

“I’m not asking Calvin Midnight to come fix our espresso machine. I’ll drive to Seattle and buy a new one before I do that.” The thought of him in my space, my bar, sends heat crawling up my neck.

“There’s no time for Seattle. And why not just ask? You literally live together. This is what neighbors do, help each other out in emergencies.”

“We share a kitchen,” I call out. “That’s not living together. It’s more like... aggressive proximity. And we’ve barely spoken since he got here.”

“Fine, you ‘share a kitchen’ with a man who apparently knows everything about coffee and can fix things with his shirt off. Which, by the way, you described in way too much detail for someone who claims not to be interested. Use your resources.”

I emerge from under the counter to find her holding my phone. My stomach drops.

“How did you—when did you even—give that back.” I reach for it.

“Nope. You left it on the bar like always.” She dances away, thumbs already moving across the screen. “Let’s see... ‘Hey Calvin...’”

“Lark, I swear to God, we’re not twelve. Give me my phone or you’re closing by yourself tonight.” I lunge for it again but she spins away, laughing.

“‘Our espresso machine died and we have a wedding party tonight requesting espresso martinis. Any chance you could take a look? I can pay your going rate.’ See? Professional. Neighborly. Not at all thirsty.”

“Do not send that. I mean it, Lark.”

She holds the phone just out of reach, backing toward the wall.

“Okay, listen, let me appeal to your practical side since you’re being ridiculous.

We need it fixed, right? And he’s literally five minutes away.

Coffee expert. Handy. Probably bored out of his mind in that cabin.

You’d actually be doing him a favor, giving him something to do. ”

“We don’t know if he’s available,” I say. “He could be out. Or busy. Or literally doing anything that isn’t fixing our machine.”

“Only one way to find out.” Her thumb hovers over send. “Come on, Maren. Worst case, he says no. Or he’s not home.”

“Worst case, he thinks I’m using equipment failure as an excuse to see him. Like I somehow sabotaged our own machine just to get him over here.”

“Did you?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

“No way! The machine is actually broken. You saw me trying to fix it for the last hour! I’ve been under that counter so long my knees have permanent mat imprints.” I lift up my knee dramatically as if showing off a war wound.

“Oh perfect day to wear that cute little black skirt,” Lark says approvingly. “Your legs look incredible and it makes your ass look amazing. Calvin’s going to forget how to speak when he walks in.”

“I wore this because it’s laundry day,” I protest, self-consciously tugging the too-short hem down.

“The universe planned it for you,” she says with a grin. “Laundry day, broken machine, hot neighbor who fixes things. It’s fate.”

“It’s a coincidence.”

“Right. Well, when he gets here and sees you in that skirt, try not to bend over too much or the poor man might hurt himself.”

“Lark!” I protest.

“What? I’m just looking out for his safety. And yours. The sexual tension might actually break something else in here.”

She waves my phone at me, the unsent message still on the screen. “So? Should I send this or are you going to keep pretending you don’t want him to come over?”

“I don’t want him to come over. I want a functioning espresso machine,” I say firmly. “There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.” She keeps holding the phone hostage. “So if it’s just about the machine, I should send it, right?”

“Okay, fine,” I say, defeated. My shoulders slump. “Send it. But only because I am genuinely out of options and we need those espresso martinis tonight. Because anything else with him is a bad idea. He’s leaving soon anyway. And if this gets weird or he acts all put out about it…”

“It’s already weird. You’ve been sharing a kitchen and pretending you don’t notice each other for days.” She hits send with a flourish. “There. Done. You’re welcome.”

My phone buzzes moments later. My heart does something stupid.

Calvin: Be there in 30. What model?

I tell him, trying to keep my typing casual, and he responds with:

Calvin: Bringing tools.

“See?” Lark says, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Resources.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me. Now go put on lip gloss or something.”

Twenty-eight minutes later (not that I’m counting), Calvin walks in carrying a toolbox that looks older than both of us.

The bell above the door chimes and I nearly drop the glass I’m polishing.

He’s wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt that shows off muscular arms that have no business looking that good.

His dark hair is still damp from a shower, and his skin has that sun-touched warmth from working outside.

When he gets closer, his cologne hits me.

Something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean in.

No. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Though seeing his forearms is making it hard to remember exactly why he would be such a terrible—

“Where’s the patient?” he asks, and his eyes flick down to my legs for just a second before he jerks his gaze back up to my face, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat. “The espresso machine, I mean.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at his flustered correction. Don’t be pleased he noticed. Don’t be pleased he noticed. But warmth spreads through my chest anyway.