Page 2 of The Kiss Countdown

Relief comes when I finally reach our drinks, grab two cup sleeves, and turn to head back, feeling sorry for (and a tiny bit better than) everyone still waiting.

“I went with the cappuccino,” Pops says from beside me, and I almost drop the drinks.

I knew he wouldn’t be discouraged for long. These old-school dudes are a different breed of tenacious, but I’ve got no patience to deal with his foolishness today. I grit my teeth as I turn away from him without making eye contact.

I’m halfway to Gina when I realize I forgot to add cinnamon to my coffee. That won’t do. I abruptly turn around, only to have my right elbow connect with something warm and solid, accompanied by a man’s surprised grunt.

After catching my footing, I’m grateful the lids have held and neither of the cups in my hands spilled. As good as the coffee is, some of the baristas are notoriously awful at putting the lids on, so I always make sure to snap mine tightly before grabbing them. Foresight and planning for the win.

I’m ready to lay into Pops for his stalkerish tendencies when I look up and realize not only did Inotcollide with Pops, but the man I did bump into didn’t fare as well as I did.

Coffee blots what I’m sure was once a pristinely pressed white shirt like paintball splatters, while dark spotscoating the zipper of fitted navy slacks make it look like he had a suspicious accident in the restroom. The coffee stops mid-torso, so I let my eyes travel up to a wide chest and broad shoulders, then momentarily lose my breath once I reach my victim’s face.

He’s tall, standing a good head above me, with skin that’s a rich, warm brown. He’s clean-shaven, with the barest hint of a five-o’clock shadow, and gorgeous full lips that stand out in perfect proportion to a cut jaw. His eyes are a beautiful golden brown, like topaz. You’d think he’d once been foolish enough to stare into the sun long enough to capture its beams. I don’t know how else someone would get eyes that brilliant. As our gazes hold, the ground begins to feel unsteady, like the earth might collapse right out from under me, and for a second, I wish I’d worn something more stylish than leggings and an old U of H hoodie. I tear my focus away from his face and focus on his shirt.

I blink, back on solid ground, then grimace at the mess covering his lower half. “Sorry about that.”

In the silence that follows, I wait for him to say something like,It’s okayorOh no, it was actually my fault for walking right on your heels.But he says nothing, and I look up to find his eyes still rooted to my face. Though his stare appears a little dazed, my neck begins to prickle. Whatisit with people today? All I want to do is enjoy my morning cup of coffee. Not get hit on by old men who should know better, and definitely not bump into handsome strangers.

Under his piercing gaze, my annoyance hedges toward guilt, and I try to swallow my irritation. I am the one who turned around without being aware of my surroundings and should probably offer more than an apology.

“I can pay for your shirt to get cleaned,” I say grudgingly. I hate the thought of adding a stranger’s dry-cleaningbill to my already tight budget, but itismy fault he’ll likely go around smelling like stale coffee grounds all day. “There’s a dry cleaner’s just a few stores down.”

“Dry cleaning?” he finally says, and wow. That voice. It’s as rich and smooth as my favorite brew. And judging by his slow response, he probably needed every drip of the coffee that just spilled.

“Yes. For your shirt.”

He looks down, and I think he’s finally snapped out of whatever trance he was in. Thick eyebrows shoot up as his eyes land on the white cup with a black lid that now sits askew and then his shirt cuff that’s soaking wet.

His eyebrows draw together as he looks back at me, seemingly stunned. “You bumped into me.”

I might’ve clapped if my hands weren’t full. I settle for a nod instead. “I know. That’s what I’m apologizing for.” I sigh and look around, noticing how Gina has switched to the opposite side of the table and now has a straight line of sight to this spectacle. Great, she’ll be talking about this for weeks.

That’s it, dry cleaning is officially off the table.

“How about you let me buy you another coffee?” I offer instead.

He frowns. “But I don’t have time to get a cup with you.”

Something isn’t clicking here, and I am holding on to my last shreds of patience with everything in me. “What is your name?” I ask slowly.

“Vincent. And you are?”

“Don’t worry about that. Look,Vincent, I was offering to replace the coffee I spilled,notwhatever it is you’re thinking.”

My answer amuses him for some reason, as he tilts his head to the side with half a smile. “ ‘Don’t worry about that’ is an interesting name.”

So he’s got jokes. Not funny, and definitely not appreciated. But jokes.

“Do you want coffee or not?” I demand.

His eyes light up even more as he chuckles, and I roll my shoulders to deflect the pleasant sensation the sound tries to elicit. I am not about to be seduced by a nice laugh.

Tearing his gaze from me, he quickly sobers when he checks his watch, which, luckily for him, is still dry. “I better hurry home and change before I’m late for the Monday meeting,” he mutters, then sighs and looks at me. “Maybe you can make up for the coffee another time.”

My eyes bug out at his words. I am too stunned to speak. And before I can think of a good comeback, he’s out the door.

“You can buymeanother coffee if you want.” Pops steps close and eyes me as he raises his cup to his mouth. “I know how you independent women these days like to pay for everything, so you can take me to breakfast too.”

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