Page 1 of Accidentally Amy

Chapter One

Izzy

“Amy?”

I sighed impatiently and watched as the barista yelled out the name (not mine), then set down the cup. I could see it was a large pumpkin spice latte, the same drink I’d ordered, and I found myself wildly jealous of Amy, whoever she might be.

Because I wanted—no, needed—to get my drink and get the hell out of there.

Please yell Izzy next. Please yell Izzy next.

If I were a responsible adult, I would’ve seen the long line at Scooter’s Coffee and opted not to get a coffee that morning. But it was the first day of the pumpkin spice latte, so my annual vice refused to be denied, regardless of the fact that I was starting a new job in T minus thirty minutes.

Yes, I was taking quite the moronic risk.

My new employer, Ellis Enterprises, was a big tech company with a reputation for being environmentally conscious andemployee-friendly. They had workout facilities, a childcare center, a free cafeteria, and a 4:00 p.m. daily happy hour; Ellis was renowned for being a great place to work.

Which meant that I was definitely going to punch myself in the face if my lack of self-discipline made me late on the very first day.

“Amy?” The barista said it again, and I looked around the busy coffee shop. There was a group of women at a big table on the other side of the café, all dressed in athletic clothes and looking like barre fitness models; perhaps one ofthemwas Amy.

I felt like Amy was quickly becoming my nemesis.

Come get your coffee, Amy, you lucky son of a bitch.

I glanced down at my watch and stifled a groan.Shit, shit, shit.If they didn’t call my name in the next three minutes—and they probably wouldn’t, because there were alotof empty cups sitting in front of the espresso machine—I was going to have to kiss that overpriced drink goodbye and abort the mission.

“Amy!” The barista said it again, sounding agitated this time, and before I had time to think, I heard myself mutter—

“I’m Amy.”

And…I reached out and grabbed the cup.

I knew it was wrong, I really did, but I needed to go and I needed that drink and I’d already paid, so it wasn’t really stealing, right? And obviouslyAmywas in no hurry whatsoever. She’d probably changed her mind and had already left the building. Surely that was a possibility.

Right?

I put my palm over the name Amy, closed my fingers around the cup, and turned, ready to sprint out of the shop before someScooter’s security officer tackled me to the ground for my egregious latte thievery, or Amy herself appeared before me.

But then I rammed right into a wall.

“Gah!”Oh, my God.It wasn’t a wall at all, but a rock-hard chest, encased in a starched white dress shirt and a charcoal tie. I stared in horror as my cup crushed on impact, the lid popped off, and hot pumpkin coffee splurted all over the chest. “I’m so sorry!”

I looked up and—whoa.

You know how in movies everything can freeze when a character sees the Big Thing? Well, that was happening to me as I made eye contact with Mr. Chest. He was looking down at me with dark eyes, really intense dark eyes that weren’t so much brown as they were the richest shade of burnt amber. His eyebrows were black, his hair was black, his perfectly maintained scruff was black, and even his suit was black, which all worked together to form some sort of contrasting frame for his face’s gorgeous bone structure and perfectly shaped mouth.

He was like Roy Kent’s taller American brother or something, and I didn’t think I was physically capable of closing my mouth at that moment.

Until I felt the hot coffee seeping into my own shirt.

That made the moment unfreeze itself. I muttered another charming, “Gahhhh,” tossed my crumpled cup (RIP latte) into the trash can, and grabbed a stack of napkins from the end of the counter.

“I can’t believe I ran right into you,” I babbled, rubbing the clump of napkins over his shirt with one hand while I dabbed at my own (thank God it was black) with the other. I was kind ofmashing the napkins against the man’s chest, patting and dabbing and trying to do anything to make the huge splotch of coffee disappear. “One minute I was grabbing my drink, the next I was ramming your chest with boiling latte. I’m not even sure—”

“It’s fine.” His voice was dark, too, rich and baritone and a little bit raspy. I glanced up, and he was giving me a half smile, like he was entertained by the impromptu pectoral rubdown, and something about that look hit me square in the gut. He said, “I hated this shirt anyway.”

I dropped my hands and said, “I did, too, but I didn’t know how to tell you. Hence the pumpkin spice latte.”

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