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Ross

Some things in life should be consistent—coffee should be black, people should be quiet, and Kira Reed shouldn't show up at my coffee shop until I've had enough caffeine to handle her. Not that anyone cares what I think, especially not Kira.

The bell above Mountain Grind's door rings at exactly seven-fifteen. I don't even have to look up—I know that sound. I know the woman who made me dread that harmless little bell. I keep telling myself this is just attraction, something I can ignore if I stay busy. But every time she walks in, I notice more than her looks. I notice how she listens, how she always finds a joke when someone needs one, and how she smiles at me when she’s teasing. The more I get to know her, the harder it is to believe my own excuses.

But that's not really true. I don't hate the bell—I wait for it. I've spent years making choices for other people, and somewhere along the way I forgot how to admit I wanted something for myself. Wanting Kira feels selfish until I catch myself imagining her laughing in my kitchen, arguing with me about coffee, and fitting into a life I thought was already full. That thought makes me happy, and somehow that happiness scares me more than being alone.

Every morning I tell myself I'm not watching the clock. But at seven-ten, I'm always behind the register instead of in the office. At seven-fourteen, I find a reason to glance out the front window. And at seven-fifteen, she walks in and turns my world upside down before I've finished my second cup.

"Morning, sunshine," Kira calls from the doorway.

My jaw clenches, and over the counter, my little sister Heather tries hard not to laugh. “Don't.” I glare at her.

“I didn’t say anything.” She presses her lips together to hide her grin.

“You were going to,” I warn, pointing the cleaning rag at her. It’s in my hand because I have to have some excuse to be at the counter instead of waiting for Kira or else my sisters will tease me even more than usual.

“Maybe,” Heather admits, turning back to the pastry case.

I hear boots approaching the counter, but I refuse to look up, continuing to wipe down the espresso machine. If I don't look at Kira, maybe today will be different. Maybe I won't notice her. Maybe I won't remember she's twenty-four, gorgeous, tattooed, sarcastic, and somehow here just to test what's left of my patience. Maybe I won't think about how much younger she is than me. Maybe I won't think about how much I want her anyway.

“Ross,” Kira calls again, closer to the counter. Ignoring her, I wipe harder. Roooss.” Kira draws out my name, clearly enjoying herself.

I finally look up. Mistake. Big mistake. Kira Reed is leaning against my counter in ripped black jeans, combat boots, and a cropped gray sweater that bares a thin line of skin above her jeans. Her brunette hair is piled messily on her head. A small silver hoop glints in her nose, ink winds along one forearm and her mouth—I stop looking at it right away. Her lips curve. She caught me staring—of course she did.

“See something you like, mountain man?” Kira asks, resting her elbows on the counter.

“No,” I answer, forcing my gaze back to the espresso machine.

“Liar.” Kira’s smile widens.

“I don't lie,” I insist, setting the rag down.

“Then you should work on it because that one was terrible,” Kira raises an eyebrow, daring me to argue.

Heather snorts, and I whip my head toward her with a death glare, causing her to suddenly become fascinated with arranging the muffins.

“The usual, please.”

“No,”

“No?” Kira asks, blinking at me.

“No,” I repeat, keeping my expression neutral.

“Are you refusing to serve me?”

“I'm refusing to make that abomination you call coffee,” I say, gesturing toward the syrup bottles.

“It’s delicious,” Kira protests, tapping the menu with a finger.

“It’s dessert,” I counter, looking pointedly at the whipped cream dispenser.

“It has espresso,” Kira argues, refusing to give in.

“Barely,” I mutter.