Page 2 of Doll Face

“Aren’t you supposed to be my bodyguard?” Matteo yelled back.

“Like you can’t guard your own body.” Rocco rolled his eyes and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

Matteo stomped into the coffee shop, muttering under his breath. “No good bodyguard. Should replace him with a G.I. Joe doll.”

The heavenly scent of coffee filled his senses, shucking his grumbling right off the proverbial grinder. A glass display showed doughnuts, scones, and bagels. He really didn’t eat sugar, but, damn, it was tempting.

“May I help you?”

Matteo glanced at the barista and suddenly the whole world shifted into slow motion and came to a screeching halt. There was a tunnel and the only two people in it were her and him. He’d never believed in love at first sight—lust, sure, but not love—yet the tiny slip of the woman behind the counter had him rethinking. Or salivating. Eh, same thing.

Heart-shaped face. Light brown hair. Blue crystalline eyes stared wide-eyed at him. So incredibly beautiful they seemed to pierce into his soul, almost too ethereal to believe. She wore some type of jaunty red beret that matched her work shirt. The name Brasserie stitched on her t-shirt. French. Should’ve known.

She was so God-damn gorgeous it almost hurt to look at her.

“May I help you?” she asked again, tilting her head.

The tunnel collapsed around him, bringing him back to reality with a thud. He had to shake out of the daze she cast over him, and stop looking at her plump lips. Her very kissable, fuckable lips.

Matteo cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. Medium salted caramel latte and a large black coffee.”

She smiled and turned to work, and holy fuck. If her front side was heaven to look at, her backside just about killed him. Jeans molded to a nice little ass he wanted to bite. And maybe fuck … hell, who was he kidding? He definitely wanted to fuck that ass.

Luckily, no one was behind him waiting impatiently. It gave him time to watch her. Admire her. Shit, now his damn slacks were too tight across the front and having a hard-on during a business meeting was not on his agenda for the day.

She turned back around and set the two cups on the counter. Then she rang him up.

“Ten dollars, please,” she said, her voice soft and melodic.

He grabbed his wallet and slapped some money down. “Keep the change for your tip.”

Her eyes widened. “That’s a hundred-dollar bill.”

“Yeah. So?”

She bit that puffy bottom lip and he just about groaned. Fuck! He started doing math in his head in an effort to—how should he put it—deflate.

“It’s a ninety-dollar tip,” she whispered.

He leaned closer to whisper back. “I had excellent service.”

A smile tugged on one corner of her mouth. “Why was Cinderella so bad at soccer?”

He blinked. What did he miss? “Uh. Why?”

“She kept running away from the ball.”

It took a second for the joke to make sense, and then he laughed. And laughed some more. “Oh, my God, that’s hilarious.”

She shrugged. “Jokes are a girl’s best friend.”

“I thought that was diamonds.”

“Only in a Marilyn Monroe song.”

He grinned. They stared at one another, and time stopped. They were the only people in the universe. In her gaze he saw a thousand different lives and in each one there she was, holding his hand.

“My name is Matteo,” he said, liking how she looked at him. Not like he was mafia because there wasn’t one hint of recognition in her beautiful eyes.

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