I’m hard as a rock.

Is there any point in denying it?

I’m also as confused as one of those unicorn drinks everyone went crazy for not too long ago. I don’t know how long. All that nasty business with Serena put me into a fog for weeks on end, but holy shit, the sun is shining and the barista working at Medium Roast has an ass like I’ve never seen.

My brain struggles to compute. This is not the middle-aged woman with coiled gray hair I’ve seen here before. That lady was working behind the counter or hovering outside near one of the little tables, wearing a sunhat.

That lady was not workin’ it, her ass a solid foot from the floor but with so much attitude she might as well have been onstage.

The first words out of my mouth tumble through my lips as she strikes a pose, looking for all the world like a rockstar with a rolled-up shirt in her hands instead of a microphone. I hear myself say them while I try my best to ignore the full-body reaction I’m having to the sight of her ass in her jean shorts, still perky. “Whoa. Am I interrupting?”

She freezes, all of her going stiff, and turns slowly toward the door. With every second that goes, by her face gets redder and redder until it outshines the trendy teal of her shirt, which is tightened around her waist with—no joke—a hair tie. It has the logo of the shop over her chest, and God help me, I can’t stop myself from noticing that too.

This woman must be on the verge of a bloodcurdling shriek. That’s the story her face is telling. But she gets one look at Rosie, staring at her too—and pulls herself back from the brink.

She clears her throat. God, if I were her, I’d want to be staring at my feet right now, not looking back at me. “Okay,” she says. “This is obviously a nightmare.” She blinks once, twice, three times in rapid succession, as if doing so will make me disappear. 

I don’t want to disappear. No. Hell no. I want to stand here all day, watching her move. I’m not going to do that because I’m not a fucking creeper, but yeah, I want that. I’m not a creeper, and I have responsibilities that I care about, unlike Serena.

“Not even close,” I tell her. “This is a dream come true.” Nope. No.

Too late. The words are already out of my mouth.

She reaches up and covers her hands with her face. “How much did you see?”

For the first time, it occurs to me that there is no music on in here. It’s silent aside from the steady drip of coffee into a carafe.

I pretend to consider the question while Rosie wriggles in my arms, losing interest in the cherry-red woman standing mere feet away. From the road, this place looked bigger. It’s not. It’s tiny as hell. Along the back wall is a countertop with two carafes on top and open shelving beneath where more teal shirts have been artfully stacked. “I saw a lot.” The image of her twerking—I think she was twerking—is burned into my brain in the most pleasant way. I did see a lot. I want to see more.

She gives a brisk nod. “Good. That’s really good. A hot guy walks into the shop and” —she claps her hand over her mouth— "and I make a total ass” —A mortified glance at Rosie. “Ash borer of myself.”

Holy shit, this is not the conversation I expected to be having when I walked in here. Not in the slightest. “It’s not as bad as you think,” I say with a laugh.

With a long-suffering sigh, she straightens up. “Well, I’d better—”

“Film a music video? You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”

“Are you calling me a stripper?” Both of her hands fly to her hips and she cocks her head to the side. “Not that there’s anything wrong with strippers,” she continues a moment later. “Everybody has to make a living, but—”

“I was not calling you a stripper.” Rosie turns and waves a chubby fist over my shoulder, squeaking the little squeak she makes when she’s noticed something interesting outside.

“Good, because I’d probably be just as bad at that,” she says. Then, without turning fully around, she bends her knees and puts the last shirt on top of a teal pyramid.

I can’t help myself. “Nice moves.”

“You caught me at my worst, okay? I’m not taking any other chances.”

“Your worst?” My erection is officially entering raging territory. “If that was your worst, I want to see you at your best.”

She lifts her chin and makes her way toward me. Closer and closer she comes until there’s only a foot of empty space between us. Her blonde ponytail swings perkily in the air, swaying to a stop when she stands in front of me, face still scarlet.

My heart hammers in my chest, pumping blood straight to the tent pole in my pants. Anything could happen in this moment. We’re totally off script. Is she even a real barista, or is she some mirage sent here to tempt me into abandoning my business goals?

I don’t care. Right now, right here, I don’t care. She has startling gray eyes and soft, pink lips, and my God, I want all of her.

She bites her lip a little bit.

This is it.

It’s happening.

She’s going to jump on me like a lusty tiger. A babysitter will appear whisking Rosie off for some educational play in a comfortable environment, and I’ll bend her right over the counter and—

“What’s…” she motions to the empty space between us. “What’s going on here?”

Am I about to ask her on a date? Am I about to date this woman and then destroy her business? I’m not. Right?

“You tell me.”

Another wave of pink to her cheeks. “I have to get by.”

“We’re all getting by.”

“No, I mean…” she laughs. “There’s only one way to get behind the counter.”

I step out of the way, murmuring an apology, but you know what? I’d like to get behind her counter.

If you know what I mean.