My forehead wrinkles. “What face?”

“The one that looks like you just sipped water from the East River.”

“It’s nothing. They just gave me a café latte instead of a caramel macchiato.” I shrug.

“What’s the difference between the two?” he asks.

“Pretty much just the caramel.”

“Why don’t you go up there and ask her to fix it?”

I wave him off. “It’s not a big deal. She’s busy. I’ll just drink it. I probably don’t need the extra sugar anyway.” I smile wide to show him it’s okay, even though I miss the sweetness and flavor of the caramel.

“Kenzie, you should say something.”

I like the sound of my name when he says it with his accent. Probably a little too much.

“Like I said, it’s not a big deal.” I take another sip to prove it then set down the cup. “Let’s get started. We have a lot to go over.”

He presses his lips together but doesn’t say anything, so I flip my notebook open to the page where I listed the phone calls I need him to make to track down supplies and see whether any caterers have availability the evening of the Christmas party.

I’m in the middle of explaining it to him when, without a word, he picks up my cup, then stands and bypasses the line, heading to the far end of the counter where the baristas are preparing other customers’ drinks. Andrew says something to the girl behind the counter, and a couple of minutes later, he returns with a steaming cup and sets it gently in front of me.

“Continue,” he says, taking his seat across from me.

“Andrew. You didn’t have to.”

“You ordered a caramel macchiato.”

“Why’d you do that?” I lift the new cup to my lips and take a sip, humming at the sweetness of the caramel flavor when it touches my tongue.

He stares at me with those storm-cloud eyes for a beat. “I got tired of watching you pretend to like the other one.”

“I told you it wasn’t a big deal.” I set the drink on the table.

“Neither is going up there and asking them to make the order the way you originally intended—and paid for.”

I shrug and roll my eyes. “Thank you.”

He tilts his head, and it makes the light catch the grey streak at the front of his hair. God, he has such nice, full, wavy hair. Why is it always guys who get the features most women would die for? I clear my throat to begin talking about the caterers again when he interrupts. “Why do you have a problem standing up for yourself?”

“I don’t.” I feel my face screw up in confusion.