“Ohmigawd! Here he comes, girl. Mr. Caramel Latte Two Extra Shots, Venti Please.”

From behind the counter of Coffee Junkies, Donna Reynolds looked at her lithe black friend, who was doing some kind of bootie dance with extra boob jiggle. Of course, Rochie could bend like a pretzel thanks to her thin frame and addiction to yoga. Then she glanced out the picture window and saw Mr. Yummy strolling down the sidewalk, right toward the shop. Her pulse stumbled.

“You should reassess your nick-naming skills, Ro.”

“Don’t be jealous.” Rochie rolled her eyes. “Shake your barista thang.”

“I refused to be called a barista. And I told you before, he’s not my type.”

“Honey, he’s everybody’s type.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should add ‘shot of self-esteem’ to the menu.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Rochie thoughtfully. “We could redefine the coffee experience, girl. Charge for extra insults and compliments. Oooooh. We could have devil cups and angel cups, too.”

“It was a joke.”

But Rochie’s thoughts had already flitted off to Idea Land, and she scurried away, no doubt to get her laptop so she could start redesigning cups and figure out what to charge per insult.

“Good morning, Donna,” came the rich mm-mm-good voice of Mr. Yummy. “How are you?”

“I’m doing quite well,” she responded. The butterflies in her belly were imitating Rochie’s crazy dance. She brushed at her pristine red apron, and sighed. Who was she kidding? She had too much of … well, everything to attract the guy’s interest. “The same as always?”

“Yes, please.” He stared at her, the way he’d stared at her every day for the last week. He was seven kinds of gorgeous—and huge. She would guess he was at least six or seven inches over six feet and he was all muscle, all very big spectacular muscle. It was a wonder that T-shirt of his managed to stay intact. Too bad. What she wouldn’t give to get a gander at what lay underneath.

As she made his drink, he followed her along the countertop, watching her progress. Usually she managed to ignore his stare, but today, she couldn’t get rid of the jitters. “Do I have something on my face?” she asked, her tone skating toward impatient.

He blinked. Then he studied her, for much longer than necessary in her opinion, and finally offered, “No.”

She added a dollop of whipped cream, put the lid on, and then carried the latte to the cash register. “That’s five dollars and sixty-three cents,” she said.

He handed her a twenty, which he always did, and when she gave him the change, he put it all into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are most welcome.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and Donna swore she saw interest flare in those blue, blue eyes. Oh, don’t even go there. Mr. Yummy was the kind of man who scooped up supermodels like she scooped up ice cream.

“Have a nice a day,” she said, and then she turned to go do something—like walk into the freezer until her temperature returned to normal. She wasn’t sure her libido could take being around him for much longer.

“Wait!” he practically yelled.

Donna wheeled back around, and frowned. “Is something wrong with your coffee?”

“No.” He looked at the paper cup in his hand as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. “I want to … that is … zarrati!” He pulled out a notebook from his upper pocket and studied it for a moment. “I wish to do you, Miss Donna Reynolds.”

Donna’s mouth fell open. She was so astonished by his bald statement, that she couldn’t find an appropriate response. She just stood there and gaped at him, while her mind buzzed with scenario after scenario of them doing each other.

Oh, wow.

He looked down at the notepad and then at her. “You are not pleased. I would try the chocolates, but you said you do not like them. Nor do you enjoy the flowers. That leaves only dinner and the movies.” He brightened. “I very much like the movies. Do you?”

At some point, the conversation had taken a left turn into Crazyville. She’d noticed that he’d a strange accent, a combo between French and Irish, and he tended to speak formally. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

He checked his notepad, and then nodded firmly. “Yes. I wish to do you.”

“What the hell! Oh, no he did not. I don’t care how hot you are, Caramel Latte Man, you can’t talk to my girl like that!” Rochie attempted to climb over the counter, dreadlocks quivering, fire in her gaze. Donna grabbed her friend’s shoulder and hauled her back.

“He’s not trying to insult me,” she said. She eyed him. “At least I don’t think he is.”

The man looked horrified. “I would never insult you. And I would kill anyone who dared disrespect you.”

Rochie peered up at him. “Are you for realz?”

“Yes,” he said, his expression confused. He turned toward Donna. “My name is John Vrek. I wish to spend time with you, but I do not understand the purpose of these rituals.”

“Let me break it down for you,” said Rochie. “When you ‘do’ someone, it means you’ve had sex. So you just asked my BFF if you could do the nasty with her.”

“I would very much like to do that as well,” said John earnestly. “But it was my understanding that women here prefer courtship.”