Chapter One
"Here's your guy."
Bailey turned to look at Tara, who was sitting on the counter, chewing a handful of mini marshmallows.
"Careful," Bailey warned. "Michael will be done cashing up soon. If he catches you nicking merchandise again—"
"Girl, did you hear me? I said he's here." Tara widened her grey eyes as she spoke around the mouthful of sweets. Then she jerked her head towards the windows at the front of the coffee shop, the ones that faced out onto the street.
Bailey had been trying to stay cool, but she couldn't resist. She looked.
The windows were covered in Christmas decals—snow, baubles, a few reindeer—and it was already dark outside. But she could still see him clearly, the streetlights glinting off of his distinctive auburn hair.
Hot Coffee Guy.
Reflexively, Bailey patted her long dreadlocks. They were shoved up into a raggedy bun and covered by a hairnet, but still—the urge to make sure that she looked presentable was instinctive.
And embarrassing.
"Wonder what he'll order today?" Tara waggled her eyebrows.
"You know what he'll say," Bailey answered, trying to keep her voice light. She turned away from Tara's knowing eyes, busying herself with tidying up the mugs.
"Yep," Tara said, still chomping on marshmallows. She lowered her voice and murmured in a passable imitation of Hot Coffee Guy: "Surprise me."
"Shhh," Bailey hissed as the shop's door creaked open, the little bell above it tinkling.
"Don't be so uptight. You should be happy he's here. I wish he'd flirt with me."
"Oh my God, stop. It's not flirting! He's just a nice guy."
"Sure, babe," Tara laughed. But thank God—she shut up. She even hopped off of the counter and put away the jar of marshmallows. Truly, she was a model employee.
Her heart pounding—and wasn't that utterly ridiculous?—Bailey focused on the mugs. She stacked them neatly as awareness crept up on her, setting off some sixth sense she'd never known she had. At least, not until the first time he'd walked into the shop.
She didn't even know his name. And yet, the moment he spoke, her body relaxed as though she'd been waiting to hear his voice.
"Hey, Bailey," he said, in that achingly low rumble.
Trying to move slowly—the last thing she wanted was to come off as eager—she turned to face him with a polite smile.
Oh, he was so fucking gorgeous.
He had both leather-gloved hands on the counter, and he was leaning towards her with his usual heart-stopping grin. Full lips + white teeth + thick stubble = Very Flustered Bailey. His dark red hair swung silkily around the sharp, masculine lines of his face, the contrast softening his aquiline nose and heavy brow. He was so tall, and so broad, that his black leather-clad shoulders filled her view almost entirely. For a second, Bailey allowed herself to imagine those shoulders becoming her world, leaning over her in far more intimate surroundings...
Then she gave herself a mental slap and exited fantasy land.
"Hi!" She chirped. "What can I get you?"
His green eyes crinkling at the corners, he gave the same response he'd been giving her for over a month: "Surprise me."
"Alright," Bailey smiled, as though she didn't know exactly what she was going to give him—as though she hadn't been thinking about it all day. "We just started our Christmas specials, so it'll be something you've never had before!" God, she sounded like an ad. Come one, come all, and enjoy the new beverages at Espresso-Go!
“Sounds good," Hot Coffee Guy said as she grabbed a mug and switched on the electric grinder. "Is that why you're wearing that jumper?"
Oh, crap. With a wince, Bailey looked down at herself.
Why, God—why did he have to come in on the shop’s Christmas jumper day? And why had she, carried away with festive spirit, worn a scarlet and green monstrosity with a knitted version of Rudolph's face popping out from the chest like a Christmas parody of Alien? She could hear Tara snickering in the background as she rinsed out the blenders. Tara, who had 'forgotten' her Christmas jumper and wore nothing more outrageous than an apron and a sprig of tinsel tucked into her ponytail.
Bailey squeezed her eyes shut as if blanking out the world could somehow save her from the indignity of this moment. He wasn't supposed to come in today, damn it. He'd been in yesterday, and he never came two days in a row.
But here he was.
Pulling herself together, Bailey opened her eyes and pasted a smile on her face. "Yep!" She said brightly. "I love Christmas. It's my favourite holiday." Obviously. Because she wasn’t already uncool enough.
But he surprised her. He picked up one of the Christmas-tree-shaped chocolates on the counter with a smile and put it by the till. "Mine too," he said. And then: "I like the jumper."
Oh. Biting her lip on a smile, Bailey turned to heat up the milk.
She whipped the white liquid full of air until it was hot and creamy, ignoring the way that the steam fogged up her glasses. With practiced hands, she poured the milk into a mug while her vision was still blurry, then followed it up with a shot of espresso, a squirt of gingerbread syrup, and flakes of chocolate. As she worked, her foggy lenses cleared bit by bit.
She turned to present Hot Coffee Guy with his Christmas confection. "Gingerbread cappuccino," she smiled, slightly breathless. As though she'd run a marathon instead of making a coffee. Lord, when would she stop being such a dork?
"Thanks," he said, taking the mug.
"And you want the chocolate too?"
"Yes, please. Feeling festive all of a sudden." He winked, and she thought she might drop down dead. How could one man be so bloody sexy?
As she tapped in his purchases at the till he pulled out his wallet. "It's very impressive, by the way, how you can do that with your glasses all steamed up."
Bailey looked up sharply, mortified. He saw? Obviously yes, if his smirk was anything to go by.
"You're like a little coffee magician," he continued.
She felt her cheeks warm up under his smoking-hot smile. He was like the sun, and she was the foolish kid flying too close. Her mind scrambling, Bailey did the first thing that popped into her head. She grabbed a pen from beside the till, waved it around like a wand, and said "Bibbity, bobbity, boo!"
Hot Coffee Guy's lip twitched. Then he coughed. And then he burst out laughing, as though he simply couldn't hold it in.
Oh, fuck.
Bailey dropped the pen and resisted the urge to let her head fall into her hands. Behind her, she heard Tara giggling hysterically.
Why on earth had she done that?! What was wrong with her?! Did she want to die alone and sexless?
Clearly.
The jangle of the door's bell cut through the laughter filling the shop, and Bailey looked up, ready to tell the newcomer that the machines were going off for the night. Yes, she was prepared to be that much of a bitch right now.
But at the sight of the customer, worry filled her.
"John?" She frowned. "Are you okay?"
The laughter stopped as Tara came forward, leaning over the counter to peer at the slender man who'd just walked in. "Oh, Christ," she said. "You look bloody freezing. Let me make you a cuppa."
John shook his head, his teeth chattering. He walked up to the counter, his huge, greying backpack on his shoulders. That backpack contained all of his worldly goods, aside from those he wore. And today, he was wearing less than usual.
The tips of his ears and the end of his nose were bright red, so cold they must have been painful. He rubbed his palms together, obviously trying to warm up his hands through their thin, hole-y gloves. Bailey rushed around the counter to reach him, barely noticing that the movement brought her right past Hot Coffee Guy. She wrapped an arm around John's shaking shoulders and led him to one of the soft, worn armchairs littered around the shop. The only other customer—an older man in a fancy suit—downed the last of his coffee before stalking out with a disgusted glance. Bailey ignored the fucker.
"Where's your coat?" She asked.
John just shook his head, his usual biting humour conspicuous by its absence.
"Did someone take it?" Bailey demanded, horrified.
"No, no," he said quickly. His voice shook, his teeth clattering together. "I gave it away."
"What?! Why?"
"Saw someone who needed it," he mumbled. Tara bustled over and thrust a large mug of tea into his protesting hands, milky and sweet, just the way he liked it.
"You need it!" Bailey insisted. "You mustn't do that! You'll catch your death!" Conscious of her voice’s hysterical tone, she took a deep breath. John didn't need her harping on at him, and she wasn't his mother. But God, homeless people actually froze to death in the winter. He couldn’t just give away his clothing willy-nilly!
"I'm sorry to come in here," he said uncomfortably. "I don't want to cause you any more trouble. Just needed to warm up a bit."
"Don't worry," Tara said. "Michael's in the back. Drink your tea, chick."
"Cheers, Tara." He took a sip, his eyes closing.
Bailey thought fast. They needed to get John a coat, but the shops would be closing soon.
He was a small man, no older than her for all his face had been ravaged by the elements, and he was always giving away what little he had to those he saw sleeping rough. They'd become friends when he started coming into Espresso-Go for the odd cup of tea—until Michael, their manager, had put a stop to that. Apparently, John’s presence ‘lowered the tone’.
God, Bailey could throttle that man.
A strange feeling cut through her thoughts; the sensation of being watched. She turned instinctively and found Hot Coffee Guy right where she'd left him, looking at her with something indescribable in his eyes.
"Oh, God," she said, throwing up her hands. "I forgot, I'm supposed to be ringing you up!"
"I can wait," he said. "Don't worry."
But then another male voice entered the fray, shattering any semblance of peace.
"What's going on out there?" Michael called. His bleating tones were swiftly followed by his appearance in the doorway of the back office. He had an earphone in one ear, but the other was dangling down, unused. Crap. Busted.
"Nothing," Tara said. She gave him a winsome smile and fingered one of the vast gold hoops in her ears, her glittery nails gleaming.
Michael's bald head gleamed as he gave her a dour look. "Take off those monstrosities, Tara,” he said. "Health and safety, you know that." Then his habitual frown deepened into a grimace as he caught sight of John. "What is that doing here?" Michael demanded. "Did he pay for that drink?"
"Um..." Tara faltered.
"I'm paying for it," Bailey said. "Come on, Michael, it's the end of the day. We're about to close anyway—”
"There's a paying customer right there," Michael interrupted pompously. He gestured towards Hot Coffee Guy. "And you are neglecting him!"
"I'm fine, mate," said Hot Coffee Guy. "Let the girls sort him out, eh? He looks sick."
Michael cast a jaded glance over John's shivering figure. "Sick? More like he hasn't had a hit in a while."
"Here, now!" John surged up, suddenly finding his voice. But he was cut off as Hot Coffee Guy reached over the counter and grabbed the front of Michael's woolly Christmas jumper, dragging him forwards until their faces were inches apart.
"You better watch what you say," he gritted out, his voice even lower than usual. “People might think you’re accusing him of something. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”
Michael spluttered as he was released. Straightening his jumper indignantly, he looked over to where Bailey and Tara stood gaping.
"I am your manager," he burst out, "and I want both of these men gone from the premises!"
"But—" Bailey began.
"No more out of you Miss Cooper, or you can join them!"
Bailey's mouth worked as she struggled to find an answer. She saw Tara's worry, Michael's rage, John's humiliation—then her gaze settled on their leather-clad defender, who was clearly incensed, his fists clenched at his sides.
And suddenly, Bailey was filled with the kind of reckless outrage that she had felt only a few times in her life.
The first time was on the day of her mother's second wedding, six months after Daddy died. Bailey had been seven. She'd shoved her fist into their four-tier wedding cake and spent the day in glorious disgrace.
The second time was at her school's prom in Year Eleven. She'd only been at that school for a year and had never managed to infiltrate any friendship groups—story of her life. So, when she saw one girl being cruelly mocked by her so-called-friends all night, she took the slight almost personally. And she might have helped the girl egg her friends' limousine. But there had been no witnesses, so really, who could say?
The third time was at the hospital, two years ago, when a doctor informed them that her mother's chest infection had been a misdiagnosis—she was actually suffering from stage four lung cancer. That night, Bailey, had... Well. She didn't like to revisit that night.
And now she was here, and her dickhead boss was giving her that smug Got you look, and John was getting up to leave with utter embarrassment on his face, and she was not fucking having it.
"Fine," she spat. "I'll go, then. Come on, John."
He looked at her, hope dawning in his eyes like the sunrise.
"What?!" Michael spluttered. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Bailey? I will sack you!"
"No you won't," Bailey said confidently, throwing off her little half-apron. "Because I quit."