Page 22 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“A quick cup?—”

“Or three.”

“—and then we’re back to the inn to grab an overnight bag for you and head up to the ranch,” he said. “The mayor will alert me when the fairgrounds are back in order, and then we’ll be down again.”

“Okay,” I said, shoving the excess packaging into my bag and exiting the vehicle.

Entering the place, I stopped short and blinked. Was this right? While the scent of coffee filled the air, the place looked like a shoebox. I was no builder, so I didn’t know much about length, but I would be hard-pressed to say this place was larger than thirty-five square meters of space.

Low light in the restaurant bounced off the eye-catching wood-paneled, mirrored interiors, and soft music murmured around us. A marble bar held espresso machines and delectable arrays of mouth-watering pastries and chocolates in display cases.

This was no Starbucks.

“What do you get here?” I asked.

“The most popular Italian coffees are the standard espresso,” he said. “The double espresso, the macchiato—you should know what that is—but I doubt you have heard of the moracchino.”

I spied a table in the corner, and we went over there, watching him closely for any signs of limping—there were none. “As for the moracchino, it’s espresso, chocolate syrup, milk, and cocoa.”

My eyes narrowed. “You brought me here for revenge on my venti caramel Frappuccino with nonfat coconut milk, two and a half c?—”

“If you repeat that heresy of a coffee order, I will have them feed you espresso alone,” he said as he picked up a menu. “I brought you here to appreciate real coffee and not that sugary crap.”

“Jokes on you,” I said. “This affogato looks like a ball of ice cream showered with espresso, or caffè con panna…coffee with whipped cream. Sounds like a big bag of sugary crap to me.”

“Were you a parrot in your past life?” he asked. “You parrot a lot of my words back to me.”

“Is it irritating?”

“Immensely.”

I snickered. “I would apologize for that, but nah. You do deserve it.”

A waitress came over and took our orders; an espresso and biscotti for him and a cappuccino and tiramisu for me. As she walked off, I texted my handler.

I’ll have a large pie with pepperoni and sausage with cola.

I set the cell aside as the drinks came, and I sipped mine and tried to get acclimated to the taste. Authentic Italian coffee tasted good, stronger than I’d had before, but it was growing on me.

“A splash of bourbon in this and I would be set,” I murmured.

He peered at me. “You’re a buck ten dripping wet. I doubt you can handle strong liquor, but if that is what you want, order a caffè corretto. It’s a shot of espresso with a small amount of liquor, usually grappa, sometimes sambuca or brandy.”

“You know a lot about these things,” I said. “Travelled a lot?”

“I’ve been around,” he said. “I went around Europe for half a year when I was eighteen, seeing Spanish matadors, and I was in Italy while the PBR world circuit was there. The riders were so magnificent that I couldn’t help but want to follow their footsteps.”

“You decided to ride a death machine at eighteen?” I gaped. “Were you insane?”

“I could be,” he replied shortly.

I knew I couldn’t get a word about that accident from him.

But that was always his way, wasn’t it? To clam up about the accident that ended his career, to keep his mouth shut. Warrick requested a coffee to go, and before the opportunity left, I asked for that caffè corretto because, why not?

When the bill came, I gave Warrick a narrow-eyed, daring glare while sliding my cash over. He stared back and, thankfully, didn’t try to be slick and slide his card under my twenties. He kept his hands where they were.

“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?”

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