Page 18 of Until the Storm Breaks
Calvin:Bringing tools.
“See?” Lark says, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “Resources.”
“I hate you.”
“Youloveme. Now go put on lip gloss or something.”
Twenty-eight minutes later (not that I’m counting), Calvin walks in carrying a toolbox that looks older than both of us. The bell above the door chimes and I nearly drop the glass I’m polishing. He’s wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt that shows off muscular arms that have no business looking that good. His dark hair is still damp from a shower, and his skin has that sun-touched warmth from working outside. When he gets closer, his cologne hits me. Something clean and masculine that makes me want to lean in.
No. Bad idea. Very bad idea.Though seeing his forearms is making it hard to remember exactly why he would be such a terrible?—
“Where’s the patient?” he asks, and his eyes flick down to mylegs for just a second before he jerks his gaze back up to my face, a faint flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat. “The espresso machine, I mean.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at his flustered correction.Don’t be pleased he noticed. Don’t be pleased he noticed.But warmth spreads through my chest anyway.
“Back here.” I lead him behind the bar, my voice surprisingly steady despite the fact that Calvin Midnight just checked me out and then got embarrassed about it.
The space behind the bar is narrow, barely meant for two people. As I walk back to the machine, I’m hyperaware of him following, of how close he has to stand in the cramped workspace.
“This is it,” I say unnecessarily, gesturing at the very obvious espresso machine. “Our problem child.”
He sets his toolbox on the counter with a metallic thunk, then leans in to examine the machine. The movement brings him closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine as he runs his fingers along the front panel, checking for obvious issues.
“When did it stop working?” he asks, all business now, but his voice sounds rougher than usual.
“A little over an hour ago. Just died mid-pull.” My voice sounds too high. I clear my throat. I’m hyperaware of every inch between us, how his cologne is absolutely intoxicating this close, how I can feel the heat radiating from his arm.
Lark has made herself scarce, suddenly very interested in organizing the liquor shelves at the far end of the bar, but I can feel her watching us like we’re her personal soap opera.
Calvin sets his hands on the machine, examining it like he’s diagnosing a sick friend. His fingers trace over the buttons and panels with confidence.
I watch him work, mesmerized by the way his hands move. The light from the windows catches on his watch, and when he reaches deep inside the machine, his shirt pulls across his shouldersand I have to look away before I do something embarrassing. He diagnoses the problem in minutes (it is in fact the thermal fuse) and starts fixing it with the kind of focus that makes me forget Lark is even in the room.
“Want a beer?” I ask. “Or water?” I need to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like touch his shoulder.
“Water would be good.” He doesn’t look up, entirely absorbed in the machine’s guts.
I grab a glass, add ice, listen to it crack and settle. When I set it near him, our fingers brush as he reaches for it. He pauses, just for a heartbeat, before taking a sip, and I watch his throat work, which is absolutely ridiculous but here we are.
The silence stretches, filled with the tiny sounds of his work. Metal on metal, the soft grunt he makes when something’s stubborn. I reorganize the cup stack, anything to keep my hands busy.
“You really know what you’re doing,” I say, just to say something.
“Spent too much time taking one of these apart in grad school,” he says, not looking up. “Well, not an industrial one like this. But I found a decent home model at a garage sale and fixed it up. They all work pretty much the same way underneath.”
“Still impressive.” I lean against the counter, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex as he works.
“Just puzzles with caffeine at the end.” He adjusts something inside the machine.
The machine suddenly hums to life, display lighting up in a cascade of blue lights.
“Oh my god.” I actually bounce a little, forgetting to play it cool. “It’s alive!”
“Try it now,” he says, stepping back, and there’s definitely amusement in his eyes now.
I grab the portafilter, fill it with our house espresso, tamp itdown with probably more focus than necessary because he’s watching. The machine purrs as I lock it in place, and when I start the pull, it sounds perfect. The stream of espresso is gorgeous, that perfect tiger-striping of crema that makes coffee people weep. The smell fills the space between us, rich and dark and promising.
“You’re a genius,” I say, and mean it. I’m grinning like an idiot, high on caffeine fumes and relief.
