Page 4 of The Icing on the Cake
“I mean, if the drink comes with a cupcake, I wouldn’t say no. Besides, it looks like you’ve been holding down the bookshop and cafe by yourself this morning. Let someone else help for two minutes.”
He’s either very observant or incredibly bold, and I can’t decide which is more unsettling. Most strangers don’t notice when someone’s barely holding it together, let alone comment on it.
I motion toward the machine. “Knock yourself out. You probably can’t break it any worse than I have.”
He pushes his rolled-up sleeves a little higher and circles around the counter, already assessing the machine like he’s donethis before. There’s something appealing about a man who looks at a broken object and sees a solution instead of a problem.
While he crouches in front of it, I busy myself wiping the already clean counter, suddenly aware of how small the space feels with both of us in it.
“I used to fix stuff for my family’s rental properties,” he tells me while he fiddles with a few parts on the machine. “My grandfather was a handyman. Taught me everything he knew about tinkering until you find the problem.”
“What brings you to our little drama-filled corner of the world? Just passing through?”
Please say yes. Please besafe.
“Actually, I’m sticking around for a while.” He glances up at me, those clear blue eyes catching me off guard. “New job.”
“Well, I’m sorry your first visit to Falling for Books involves you fixing something.”
“It’s no problem,” he assures, reaching over the machine to study the back.
After a few minutes of poking and prodding, the machine suddenly hums back to life.
“You fixed it?” I don’t even hide the surprise in my voice.
He straightens. “You had a loose connection. Should hold for now, but you’ll want to get it serviced soon.”
I hand him a towel, our fingers brushing for just a moment. “Seriously? That’s it?”
He shrugs like it was no big deal, but he just saved my entire morning. “Broken things just need patience … and a little extra love.”
The way he says it, gently and matter-of-fact, sends a little spark through my chest, the kind I thought I’d lost forever.
“Well, let me make you a latte, then. It’s our first day of pumpkin spice season, and I owe you something.” I move toward the espresso machine, grateful to have something to do with my hands.
He leans against the counter. “I’m Lucian Lowe, by the way.”
“Neesha Gilmore.” I begin making his drink, muscle memory taking over. “That’s unique—Lucian. Roman emperor or vampire novel?”
“Neither. It was my grandfather’s name. The handyman.”
“Ah, so fixing things runs in the family.”
“You could say that. My grandfather used to say that when things break, it’s just a chance to learn how they work.” He watches me make his drink with a focus that makes me self-conscious. “Where did your name come from?”
“My mom wasn’t into popular names. She wanted something special.” I measure the coffee precisely, needing the distraction to keep my thoughts off the way he’s staring at me. “My mom read it in a poetry book. But all my life I just wanted a name like Emily or Jennifer.”
“I get that.” He laughs lightly. “I always wanted to be Jake or Isaac. But at least Neesha is a name you won’t forget.”
I glance up, trying to read what’s behind those calm sea-blue eyes. There’s something about him, a steadiness that feels too good to be true.
Which means it probably is.
“So what’s this new job of yours?” I ask, because I need to know what I’m dealing with.WhoI’m dealing with. “Please tell me you’re not associated with that Alexander guy everyone’s talking about.”
He rubs the back of his neck like he’s thinking. “Nothing like that. I’m here to help fix up a home.”
He’s being vague. Evasive. Red flags everywhere.
