Page 21 of Cream & Sugar
I give him a thumbs-up. “Got it.”
Damn. Shaun isn’t just eye candy, he’s actually kind of awesome, and I won’t lie, watching him deal with Grumpy?Sohot, the way he got all stern like that.
I can't help but wonder what Shaun’s like in bed. With a butt like that, Ihopehe’s a bottom. He gives off gentleman vibes, but I bet there’s some filth in there, buried deep down beneath that gorgeous exterior.
“Come on,” Shaun says, beckoning me over. “I’ll show you how to clean my milk wand.” His cheeks turn from pink to red.
Knew it.
8
Shaun
It’sasteadymorning,not too quiet, not too busy. Perfect for Freddie to learn the ropes. He picks up the till fast enough and even starts plating up the cakes for me when the orders stack up, something I didn’t even ask him to do.
I quickly realise my prediction was correct: Freddie isgreatwith customers. Barring the first lady who came in, pretty much everyone has left with a smile on their face, regardless of how moody they were when they walked through the door. Even the grouchy regulars, whom I normally dread serving, are won over by Freddie’s charms. One woman who once complained to me her cappuccino had too many chocolate sprinkles on it—I mean, comeon—actually blushes when Freddie compliments her cardigan. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks he’s good looking. Objectively speaking.
Where Freddie falls short is his overwhelming lack of coffee knowledge. He gets the basics soon enough but, any time a customer orders something even slightly off-kilter, his face glazes over, and he looks to me to save him.
“Some of these drinks don’t sound real,” he says after watching me make a frappuccino for someone weird enough to order one in November.
When a man asks for a skinny matcha, Freddie takes some convincing that the bright green concoction is something a human being would voluntarily drink.
“What does it taste like?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.
I make him a taster cup using the leftover milk. He sniffs it suspiciously before taking a sip.
“Bleugh!” He swallows, winces, and hands the mug back to me like it’s a ticking time-bomb. “It tastes like grass.”
As much as I hate shitting on centuries of Japanese tea culture, he’s right. It really does taste like grass.
“So, what’s your favourite kind of coffee?” I probe during the pre-lunch lull.
Freddie is tidying up the cake fridge, a triangle of flapjack clamped between his tongs.
“I’m more of a hot chocolate kinda guy,” he says, stacking the flapjack. “Nothing beats a hot choccie by the fire in winter.”
A vivid picture materialises in my head: Freddie wrapped up in blankets, sipping cocoa by the fireside. Shirtless, for some reason.
Nope.I blink away the fantasy.
“You might like a mocha then,” I reply, unsure how much time has passed.
“A mocha?” Freddie chews his lower lip. “That’s—wait, don’t tell me!”
I keep schtum, watching him connect the dots in his head.
“Steamed milk… chocolate and… expresso!”
“Very good, but it’ses-presso,” I correct him. “If you want to remember it, just think of the Sabrina Carpenter song. But yes, that’s a mocha. Want me to teach you how to make one?”
“Sure!” He balances the final piece of flapjack on the pile and shuts the cake fridge. “So, you like Sabrina Carpenter?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why?”
Freddie avoids my eye, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No reason. So! I’m finally gonna get a go on this beast, eh?” he gestures towards the coffee machine.
“If you think you can handle it?” I tease, knowing full well he’s not lacking in confidence.
