Love—it's what I do. Love is why I get up in the morning, and it's the last thing I think of at night. I'm aware this makes me sound like a complete freak, and that spending my days dreaming about weddings, happily ever afters, and sweet hot nothings whispered in my ear by a certain sweet, hot barista might make me pathetic, but such is the life of a coffee-obsessed wedding blogger.

I trace my hand over the sweetheart neckline of the wedding gown. Thirteen months ago, my big day was coming.

Turned out my fiancé, Jeremy, was coming, too.

Coming inside a model named Lisa. Then one named Ireland. Then a cocktail waitress named Leticia.

My phone sounds from the kitchen, and I give the dress one last look. My symbol of hope. Because I know that someday, somehow, I’m going to find a man worth wearing it for.

Touching the dress once more for luck, I race into the kitchen, swiping my phone from the counter.

Emma: You free later? I thought I might swing by.

I quickly tap out a reply.

Romy: I’m always free.

Emma: You know if you actually told the Coffee Hottie how you felt about him, you’d never be “free” again.

Ha! I mock-glare at my phone, as if my best friend could somehow see me on the other end of it, then stash it in my purse before rushing downstairs to meet the current love of my life.

Coffee.

It’s never let me down.

I can taste it on the tip of my tongue, that bittersweet mix of earth and something darker, something sexier, something altogether intoxicating. From the time I wake until I lay my head on the pillow at night, coffee consumes most of my mental real estate, right alongside weddings.

Coffee.

Weddings.

And my favorite barista.

My feet hit the final stair, and I pause at the internal door connecting my stairwell to the café below. I look through the glass door, my breath catching in my throat.

Elio.

My coffee hottie.

The gorgeous Italian barista with the dark chocolate eyes and scruffy beard might be the reason I’m out of bed and in a full face of makeup before 9:00 a.m., but it isn’t just that face or body, or the way he grins when he hands me my cup of piping-hot coffee that has me here every morning.

It’s also his muffins. And do not even get me started on his buns. The man is a mean baker, and I’d happily offer myself up as a guinea pig to taste test his . . . er . . . his baked goods.

But that will never happen.

Because as much as I love the idea of indulging in Elio, I know a guy as delicious as him would never go for a woman like me. I catch sight of my reflection in the glass window as I reach for the handle. Yeah, no way would a man that fine be ready for all this jelly.

The little bell above the bakery door tinkles as I enter. The smell of cinnamon, of baking, of oh-so delicious hits me in a wave of warmth. I suck in a deep breath, closing my eyes for a moment as the door behind me swings closed. This. Is. Heaven.

“Morning, Romy.” My own personal god smiles at me. “What can I interest you in today?”

You.

Served up shirtless on a platter.

Whipped cream on the side.

Please?

“Oh, just the usual. A latte, maybe a muffin . . .”

“Coming right up. One latte, and maybe a muffin.” Elio winks. We both know there’s no maybe about it.

The coffee machine clunks into life as he steps behind it, and I walk farther into the room, stopping in front of the bookshelf in the far corner. Preloved books are stacked high, one on top of the other, and I pick up the closest, an old green leather-bound volume of Pride and Prejudice. I flick through the pages, then place it down, reaching for the next book on the pile. Fifty Shades of Grey.

I chance a quick look over my shoulder. Elio’s eyes are still trained on the coffee machine, not focused on me at all.

I flick the book open, my back to the counter, landing on a page somewhere in the middle. I’ve always wanted to read this.

“How’s work?” Elio asks over the throb of the machine.

“Oh, you know, worky.” Worky? Really, Romy?

Elio doesn’t reply. He’s probably so blinded by the brilliance of my response he’s at a loss for words.

I glance down at the pages of the book again. Holy shit, it’s as hot as they say it is. And now I’m blushing for an entirely different reason.

“You doing a little light reading?”

I look up. Elio’s staring right at me.

No.

He’s staring right at the erotic romance in my hand.

“What? No. That’s not . . . it just jumped off the shelf. I barely even touched it.” I shove the book back, but damn it, it won’t fit. I push the paperback into the corner, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to slide it back into its original spot. “I’ll just . . . push . . .” I grunt. Stupid book. My cheeks, my chest, they’re burning up. So embarrassing.

Elio just laughs and walks across the café to my side. He takes the book from my hand, and slides it back in place, as if it wasn’t a challenge at all. He grabs a worn hardback from the pile and hands it to me. “Try this one. I think you’ll like it.”

I take the book from his hand and run my fingers over the embossed spine. Crime and Punishment.

Riding crops. Whips and chains. Crime and punishment.

Oh, what I’d give to explore this topic more.

But of course, I don’t.

I may have the biggest crush in the world on the barista who works downstairs, but I know the type of women men like him attract. Beautiful. Sexy.

Skinny.

And while I’m not some hideous monster, I just can’t compete with that.

I change the topic, willing the flames in my cheeks to die down. “You know most people have e-readers these days, right?”

He wrinkles his nose. “E-readers? Sacrilege.”

“You prefer musty old books that previously belonged to God knows who, doing God knows what?”

“Of course. That’s what gives them character; it’s what gives them life. Besides, you can’t improve on perfection.”

I turn the book over in my hand. “Perfection, huh?”

“Mmm.” His eyes meet mine. I could easily get lost in them. I swallow hard, and Elio shakes his head. “Your coffee’s getting cold.”

“Oh, right. Coffee.”

He lifts the cup and plate from the counter and turns to me. “Same spot?”

I nod and follow him as he heads toward the window. “Same spot.”

He sets my food down on the table and pulls out a chair, resting his hands on the seat back. I sit, and Elio leans in, his voice low and inviting in my ear. “You let me know when you’re ready for more.”

Now.

I’m so ready for more.

He walks around the table to face me. “Let me know when you’re ready for another cup.”

Nervous laughter bubbles up my throat, and I force my voice to keep level. “Oh, I will. Thank you.”

He chuckles as he walks back to the counter to serve more customers, and I sigh. Pathetic, thy name is Romy.

I settle into the hard-backed seat and take a mouthful of my coffee. Delicious. My fingers fly over the keyboard as I log in to the café’s Wi-Fi and check my e-mails.

The usual mix of photos from wedding photographers flood in, along with an invitation to a local gallery opening.

But one e-mail catches my eye.

One e-mail makes me stop in my tracks.

I click through, and the text fills my screen.

KENNA FINDS HER FOREVER

Local celebrity and weather reporter Kenna McPherson has finally said “yes” to her long-time boyfriend, Olympic skier Matthew O’Reilly. The popular presenter has announced that she’s “never been happier,” and that she can’t wait to plan the event of her dreams right here in Colorado Springs.

Kenna is expected to announce details of her impending wedding on Friday night during her live weather report from one of the trails over at Pikes Peak.

I look away from the browser window. Holy hotcakes. Kenna McPherson, my best friend from high school, the girl who stole my boyfriend in the twelfth grade, is getting married.

Elio laughs with a customer, the kind of warm, rich sound that’s completely infectious. Bone-meltingly swoon-worthy. Oh God. I have a serious problem.

Kenna is getting married. And here I am, sitting in a coffee shop, a dress collecting dust in my spare room, and the current object of my affection barely even knows I’m alive.