I collected all the little tidbits about him, hoarded them like they were going to be useful for something. Like they were going to be mine. Like he was going to be mine.

Ridiculous... I truly was a ridiculous person.

“I mean, what do you want?” I spluttered, my chest tightening, sweat beading between my breasts.

Yes, I tended to sweat when I was really nervous. Which, of course, made me even more nervous, worrying that someone would notice aforementioned sweat, therefore making me sweat more.

So now all I could think about was the hottest guy to walk the earth seeing my boob sweat.

The edges of his body were starting to blur as I ramped myself up for a full-on panic attack for being the biggest dork on the planet.

The corner of his mouth twitched, and his eyes might’ve twinkled with amusement. But I also could’ve been hallucinating.

“I’ll have a black coffee and an almond croissant,” he said, deadpan.

“And I’ll have an almond croissant, two macadamia and white chocolate cookies, and a brownie,” the man standing behind him added, grinning ear to ear.

Kip. His business partner.

Kip was blond, almost boyish, a little more tanned, and he had a lighter energy than Rowan. They were an unlikely pair.

I was infinitely thankful to Kip for reminding me that other people existed in this world. Other people to yes, witness my break from reality, but also to focus on.

“Got it,” I told him, focusing on his friendly and attractive but not dangerous face.

“And a latte,” he continued, still beaming with glittering eyes while looking from me to Rowan. “Caramel. Oat milk. To go.”

I nodded once, vaguely noting it was amusing and kind of adorable that a macho man construction guy was ordering an oat milk latte with caramel.

I made myself busy, putting their pastries into our signature pink and white striped boxes, taking a lot of extra care and time with the boxes and the bows I tied around them.

Unfortunately, no matter how long I took on their orders, I would actually have to give them to them at some point.

By the time I was done, Tina had already made their coffees, and both men’s hands were fastened around our pink takeout cups.

Rowan’s fingers were long, masculine. I wasn’t sure that fingers could actually be masculine until this moment. Those hands would look so large and rough against my pale skin.

Why I was thinking about those hands on me right then was anyone’s guess.

I shook myself out of it and slid the boxes across the counter toward the men, not wanting to risk any kind of brush with those hands.

Far too cowardly to look upward, I focused on the cash register, tapping at the screen with trembling fingers. No one spoke. Well, no one in the immediate vicinity spoke. Of course, people in the café spoke. Florence and the Machine played from the speakers, mocking me with all of her divine feminine strength, with her utter confidence and strong sexual energy.