Page 33 of Mistletoe Latte

“What do you want?” Nick barked at the next customer, who slapped a wizened hand to her chest. She looked prepared to launch a ‘well, I never’ but he stampeded over it. “If you don’t know, step aside for someone who does.”

“An Americano. Please.”

Emma dashed to the espresso maker to start the drink at the same time Nick ambled over. Both reached for the same cup. Her thumb caught through the handle first, and she couldn’t get it out. But Nick kept staring, causing her blush to rise. Pulling again caused Nick’s hand and the rest of him to lean closer. The thick scent of coffee was eclipsed by sandalwood and Emma began to melt.

“I can let you do it,” she said, uncertain how to get herself out without losing a thumb.

He breathed in, the lights glinting off of his peppery scruff. Nick sighed and released the cup. “Go ahead. You know what you’re doing.”

She placed the mug under the drip. Scrolling through the menu buttons, Emma said softly, “Only because I had a good teacher.”

“Ha. You have any idea how many times I burned my arm figuring that thing out?” He raised his forearm as if to show off the scars, but the buffalo check flannel hid away his skin. Rummaging a hand through his hair, Nick turned away. “I bet you think I’m an ogre. Or whatever horrible thing Skylar’s called me.”

Steam burst from the machine and Emma watched the last drops of the espresso hit the cup. Picking it up, she walked over to the counter and dropped it onto a waiting saucer. After the woman took her coffee with a sour look, Emma said out of the corner of her mouth. “I think you’re doing the best you can.”

“Chasing customers away, terrorizing the foodie community…whatever the hell that is.”

“I can’t blame you there. We didn’t have a service where an influencer wouldn’t come in and demand free food for exposure.”

Nick sputtered a laugh. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you don’t much care for them.”

Oh, dear. Emma’s cheeks burned and she scratched her ear. “I’m capable of disliking people. On occasion.”

“Yeah?” Nick dropped an elbow to the counter and placed his chin in his hand. “What about now?”

God save her, in that pose all she could see was a gruff old west Marshall flirting with the barmaid before he won a duel at high noon. To taste that pouty, taunting lip, run her hands through his salt and blond hair, feel the rush of his peppery scruff against her thighs…

“What was the question?” Emma stuttered, burning up inside her sweater. She tugged on the neckline, hoping to cool herself off, but the apron fought back.

Nick laughed and waggled a finger at her. “You’re too nice for your own good.”

All of her old teachers reared back at her at once.You’re too weak, too tenderhearted. You’ll never make it as a chef if you don’t toughen up.None of them believed in her. Emma was certain she’d find her inner strength and prove them all wrong. In less than a year, she went from working up the ladder to abandoning her dream. She was the one who couldn’t thicken her skin and tough it out long enough to become head dessert chef.

Ducking her eyes, Emma slunk back to the machine and fulfilled the orders as they came in. It was easier for her body to slip into auto mode while she kept silent. It was the only way to keep the tears at bay.

Addy’s mother appeared, flirting even harder than before while Emma made her coffee. Tossing her blonde hair back like a fighter enticing a bull, she said, “The divorce is going to be finalized soon, and I can’t decide how to celebrate.” The air thickened with tension, demanding Nick respond to cut it.

He took the cup from Emma and capped it. “Wine and a fire?” he said.

She brightened at the suggestion. “Sounds romantic.”

“I was thinking more cathartic. I guess the size of the fire depends on how much of his shit is still at your house.” Nick reached over to pick up a bar towel when a cart loaded with boxes labeled for canned green beans rolled in through the door. Instead of shouting, he smiled and waved to Emma. “Hey, this one’s for you.”

Confused, she walked around the corner as the younger man in a red polo stopped at the counter. “Got your order here. Ten bags of flour, sugar, baking soda, baking powder, a bunch of spices, and a five-gallon jug of fry oil.”

“Oh my goodness!” Emma clasped her hands in shock, then she peeked at the pile of baking goods. “But you said…?”

Nick finished signing the bill. “I thought it over, and you’re right. Seems stupid to leave that oven sitting idle when it could be put to better use. May as well do something with them.”

Tears sprang in her eyes. Luckily, Emma was able to blink them away before ruining her mascara as she hefted the box into her arms. Nick reached over. “Do you need any help?”

“Nope! Oh, what should I make? Can I bake now? Or should I save it for tomorrow?”

He laughed and waved her on. “Go ahead. I can deal with this riffraff. Hi, Sam.”

“Hi!”

“As for what to make…”

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