Page 213 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Then let’s go home.”

The room howls.

Jenna’s glare could melt steel. “You are not helping.”

“Not trying to,” he says, smug as sin.

“Jenna’s gonna murder him,” Sophia whispers.

“Yeah,” Rebel grins, “but not before he makes her come first.”

Jenna groans. “I hate you all.”

We laugh harder.

We do not stop.

Carter’s already tugging on her hand again, eyeing the back hallway like he’s seriously considering it.

“The supply room’s right there,” he murmurs, all wicked innocence. “Bet it locks.”

Jenna yanks her hand free, face on fire. “You so much as open that door, and I will take you.”

“Kinky.” He leans in, brushing his mouthnear her ear.

She shoves him toward the espresso machine with a firm palm to his chest. “Go drink your damn coffee.”

Carter goes—but he’s grinning the whole way.

And while we’re still cackling in his wake, Rigel moves in quietly.

He makes his way to where Mia is prepping drinks and leans against the counter.

“How’s my favorite barista?” His voice is low and rough, meant only for her.

But I see it—the way her cheeks flush, the way her lashes dip as she slides him his drink without a word.

“Better now,” she murmurs.

His fingers brush hers as he takes the cup, the touch lingering just a moment too long to be accidental.

“Still on for tonight?” he asks, and Mia nods, her smile small but unmistakably happy.

“Ally,” a deep rumble snaps my attention as Hank approaches the counter. My breath tightens almost reflexively. “Cappuccino. And don’t ruin it this time.”

I know he’s joking, but I fake a gasp anyway, clutching at my imaginary pearls.

“Ruin it? Excuse me? Did you want weak espresso with that cappuccino, too, sir?”

“Depends,” he fires back smoothly, folding his arms against his chest. “Are you planning to serve me with that signature latte-art amoeba again? Or have you gotten better?”

The bubbling of the steaming wand barely masks Malia’s choked laughter somewhere next to me as I grab a fresh shot glass and pour new espresso into it.

“You’re lucky you look as good as you do, sir,” I say, letting sarcasm lace the words just enough. “Otherwise, I’d be spitting in this drink.”

His voice drops to a rough whisper, just for me. “I love hearing you call me ‘Sir,’ but if you keep saying it in public, I’m gonna get hard—and then you’ll have to deal with that.”

My hands falter, a quick, betraying motion I try to play off,though heat creeps up my neck. His smirk deepens, slow and deliberate like he knows exactly how much he’s unraveling me.

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