Page 5 of Discord
But of course, Brandon had to swoop in and fuck it up. I preferred to climb down a fire escape than face him. Things a girl had to do for caffeine.
Panting, I jumped off the last ledge, landing on two solid feet. It was spring but still too chilly for my taste. Climbing with a hoodie was difficult, so I opted for a three-fourth sleeve baseball shirt and black leggings. It wasn’t sufficient protection for a walk to a local café, so I settled for homemade brew. Thank God I had learned how to make coffee.
Rounding our brownstone on stealthy feet, I sought out the back entrance to the kitchen. I threw open the screen door and… froze.
“Shit,” I muttered.
A brand-new coffee machine sat in all its glory on our granite countertop. It rivaled the size of a small television. Did Milo buy a new machine?
Throwing my long blonde hair in a messy bun, I carefully inspected the mechanism. I had never seen so many sophisticated buttons and extensive choices outside of a professional establishment.
I instinctively hoped for someone to walk into the kitchen and help me, but hints of shoptalk evaporated from the other rooms, indicating everyone’s preoccupation. A few weeks ago, Raven and her parents moved in with us. She started a website to make custom clothing. The business had taken off, keeping her busy around the clock. Meanwhile, Reid was off on one of his benders, my parents were busy entertaining the Becketts, and Milo was slammed with a looming deadline.
Snuffing my instinct to rely on others, I grabbed a mug out of the cabinet. My eyes roamed the menu options and the tiny nonsensical screen. There must be an instruction manual or pamphlet for this monstrosity. I searched the counter, the table, and kitchen drawers, only to come up short. Next, I opened the top cabinets one by one, turning them inside out.
My efforts were futile. I thought longingly of a white chocolate mocha or a pumpkin spice latte and felt the tears prickling at the corner of my eyes. With new determination, I placed my cup under the dispenser and settled in to understand my latest archnemesis. It was an episode of man versus machine.
I squinted my eyes at the various buttons with images. One of them was bound to work. Trial and error. I pressed a random button with a coffee cup image.
“Fuck! Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Unable to silence my exclamations and profanities, I jumped back as milk splashed from the metal rod handle and onto my shirt. I had scarcely barricaded against the attack with my hands held out when I heard some distinct footsteps. A large hand reached past me and pressed a button to stop the madness. My sharp inhale would have been audible were the steamer not so loud. Tilting my head, I found Brandon glaring down.
Of course.
It was the person I had gone to extreme lengths to avoid, so naturally, he had come to my rescue.
I eyed him warily. His five-o-clock shadow was back, adding a gruffer look to his hair, which was messier and longer than ever. The way Brandon returned my stare, you’d think I was naked. I wasn’t displaying an ounce of skin. Nonetheless, his eyes roamed my body, paying particular attention to my ass bent over the counter. I quickly straightened and turned to face him.
God, he smelled delicious.
I shook my head to rid the never-ending dirty thoughts surrounding this man. Meanwhile, his eyes landed on the front of my shirt to inspect the milk splatter before he caught sight of the chaos around me.
I had turned the cabinets inside out to find a manual. Boxes of food, cans, and condiments were scattered on the granite countertop. Some of it was heaped on top of others after I ran out of counter space.
Brandon appeared stunned by the state of the kitchen. “What the hell did you do?” he asked harshly.
At least he hadn’t called me a mad scientist yet. With as much dignity as I could muster—while covered in white lines resembling cum splash—I crossed my hands over my chest. “I was making coffee.”
He nodded thoughtfully at the mess. “Obviously.”
I rolled my eyes at his dry sarcasm. “For your information, I was searching for the instruction manual. We have a new machine, and I have no idea how to use it.”
“Then why didn’t you ask someone?”
“Ask who? Everyone is always busy—”
“Ask me,” he replied through gritted teeth.
His words gave me pause. Deprived of my morning drug, I grudgingly admitted to feeling grateful for an injunction that felt natural—someone else taking care of me. I cleared my throat. “Will you make me a cup of coffee?”
“Do you have any milk that you drink?” he asked without missing a beat, referring to my lactose-intolerance.
I marched to the fridge to retrieve a carton of oat milk and handed it to him. Brandon poured the milk into a stainless-steel carafe and dispensed coffee beans into a fancy holder. Placing the carafe under the steel rods, he pressed a button to froth the milk.
I tried to learn each step as he worked the machine, but Brandon deliberately blocked my view with his huge shoulders, forcing my eyes to track his massive back instead. It was covered by a well-fitted white t-shirt.
“If you stare any harder, you’ll fall in love with me,” Brandon said with his back turned to me.
