I look up and my brain short-circuits.
True, I've been in hiding for the last few months. The thought of pursuing anything casual or otherwise with any gender has caused even my rockstar gag reflex to act up. So it is possible that my reaction is partially due to a lack of exposure. Still, no part of me expected the owner of that voice to be one of the best-looking human beings I'd seen outside a thirst trap video in a very long time.
It takes a solid second for me to realize I'm quite literally gawking.
“Hmm,” I hedge, testing my vocal cords. “This may be a little weird, but the barista across the street said y'all carry their coffee?”
“We do.” He reaches beneath the bar, producing a standard coffee mug. It looks like a damn tea cup in his large, tattooed, be-ringed hand.
Those hands would look good-Jesus, Toni.Not like you haven't encountered an insufferably attractive human in the wild. Get it together.
“I'd love a cup.”
“Irish or virgin?”
“Virgin, for now,” I say, immediately regretting the choice of words.
The corner of his lips quirk, or maybe I just imagine they do. “You got it.”
He turns his back, and I almost disintegrate. The black T-shirt does nothing to diminish the width of his shoulders, and those jeans, fitted but not overly tight, are a sin against all things right and decent in this world.
“Cream?” He sets the steaming mug before me.
“Nah, black is fine.”
“Try it first.”
I cock a brow. Maybe I'd be lucky and he'd out himself as one of those guys who think women can't handle things likeblack coffee, whiskey, or driving a stick shift. Admittedly, I was not a whiskey drinker and generally preferred the ease of an automatic, but still. “Trust me, I'll be good.”
He crosses offensively muscled arms on his chest and nods at the mug. Was he intending to wait for me to taste it? I meet his eyes, spite overriding lust for a blissful moment.
I take a sip and fail to hide my shock.
It was excellent coffee, honestly better drip than I'd had at most coffee shops, but it was so strong it could knock anyone on their ass.
He barely holds back a laugh as I glare at him. “Don't feel bad, you're not the first.”
“But let me guess, you drink it straight daily.” I don't try to soften the note of snark in my tone.
“Absolutely not. More of a tea guy.” Excellent. A flaw. He shakes a small pitcher of cream at me.
“Yes, please.” He adds a splash, enough to take the edge off. I take a more cautious sip to find that it's perfect. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
I give him the appropriate close-lipped smile and turn my eyes to my laptop. I need something to focus on immediately, before my self-control gives way. The last thing I needed to do was something foolish like chatting up the hot bartender walking distance from my front door.
“Password is sláinte,” he says.
I look back up at him, trying to parse out what he just said to me and failing. “Sorry?”
“Wi-Fi? The password.”
“Yeah, I made that connection, it was the other part.” I attempt to echo the word back to him, “Sloan chair?”
Amusement crinkles the corners of his light-colored eyes. Were they green? Hazel? They could have been magenta, itwouldn't matter because I don’t need to be staring at them like an idiot.
“Sláinte,“ he repeats, spelling it out. “Basically, cheers in Irish.”
