The lunch rush was winding down. Brittany found herself carrying several coffee mugs, tilting in all different directions. They clattered together ominously, making her cling to them tightly, anxious they would blast to the ground. Sarah snuck up behind her, making a roaring noise, trying to frighten her.

“Don’t you even dare,” Brittany said, her eyes flashing. “If Ian catches me breaking another mug around here, I’ll be fired.”

“You’re right. What if some of the shards get into his perfect, artisanal beans?” Sarah joked, collecting half of the pile from Brittany’s quivering hands.

Ian had sped off to make a delivery, leaving the girls alone at Blue Line—sharp-tongued and ready to talk shit about their most inconvenient coffee shop gig. As Sarah began to scrub at the coffee stains, Brittany whipped around to begin refilling the window with baked goods—muffins, scones, all things she hadn’t allowed herself in the months since she’d begun working there. “I gained five pounds when I first started,” Sarah had told her, her voice low and anxious. “Just be careful. Many baristas have fallen off the wagon of their best-laid diet plans.” To this, Brittany had laughed wildly.

“I just want to finish up these dishes so we can get back to the important work of ogling those assholes in that magazine,” Sarah called to her, chuckling. “Forget design school. Do you think we could major in rich businessmen?”

“Ha,” Brittany laughed. “I don’t know how I’ll pay my bills with that.”

As she arranged the muffins: raisin, then craisin, then chocolate chip, she heard the jangling of the bell at the door. With a sigh, she turned toward it, ready to take on another group of wide-eyed, hungry customers, coming to whoosh her into another rush.

But when she glanced up, she found herself gazing into the gorgeous, penetrating eyes of the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyebrows that seemed to have a life of their own. His features were sharp, vaguely European, and his suit was immaculate, showing the grandness of his wealth. Stuttering, Brittany greeted him.

“He—hello,” she said to him, tossing toward the register. “Welcome to Blue Line.”

She continued to gaze into his eyes, sensing an electric spark gravitate up and down her spine. He was a good deal older than her, perhaps 30, and seemed to evoke an air of grandeur and know-how. Noticing her anxiousness, a smile stretched across his face.

“Hi there,” he said, his voice deep, gravelly. “Looks like the place just emptied out.” He gestured back, toward the side tables, still filled with leftover plates and forks and crumpled napkins.

“We had quite a rush,” Brittany whispered, knowing she sounded foolish.

“Good. I have you all to myself,” he said.

Brittany felt her heart begin to beat rapidly, rabbit-like, against her ribcage.

“I’d love a latte,” he continued. “If you can spare the time.”

“Of—of course,” Brittany stuttered again, almost leaping toward the espresso machine and beginning to brew the beans. Continually, she glanced up at him, as he sorted his bills in his massive, leather wallet. His nails were smooth, clean, connected to the firmest, largest hands she’d seen in her life—hands that could control you, when they wrapped around your waist.

As the black liquid began to course into the cup, she realized, with a jolt, that this was the man from the magazine. Paul Le Montange. The billionaire, with family connections in Paris. With a shudder, her eyes traced back toward the counter, where the magazine was still spread open—on his photo.

Fuck.

Almost on cue, Paul followed her eyes directly toward the magazine, realizing that his face was staring back. Chortling slightly, a bit arrogantly, yet not unkindly, he lifted the magazine from the counter and gestured to his face.

“Not one of my best photo shoots,” he said, his eyes glittering.

Brittany nearly dropped the cup. With her lips pressed together, she tried to collect her thoughts, to calm her racing mind. Finishing with a flourish, she passed the latte across the counter toward him, making direct, deep eye contact once more. She couldn’t resist it.

“Um. My co-worker. She had it open… Wanted to keep in the know about New York happenings. You know.”

In that moment, Sarah darted back toward the far refrigerator, leaving the two of them alone. The air around them grew tense, rippling with Brittany’s anxiety. Why hadn’t she followed the rules? Left the magazine alone? “Think of the artisanal beans,” Ian had told her, over and over. But her lonely heart had gravitated someplace else.

“So you didn’t notice you were speaking to the man in the magazine?” he asked, still maintaining that crooked smile.

“I mean, you must understand,” Brittany said, trying to regain traction. “I’m a centered, coffee-driven woman. I can’t mess around with things as silly as a magazine article.”

“Right. So even though this was one of the top-selling magazines in the past five years, you didn’t really care to look into it,” Paul said, teasing her.

Brittany crossed her arms across her chest, causing the small, pert breasts beneath to bulge up. Was he flirting with her, or did it just always seem that he was flirting, given how handsome he was?

“Best-selling, huh? You must be really proud,” she teased back, tossing her light blonde hair behind her ears. “I suppose I can give it a read later, unless you want to give me a rundown of what’s in it?”

“Oh, just the basics,” Paul shrugged. “That I’m one of the richest men in New York. That I look damn fine in a suit. That I tip my baristas incredibly well, even if they make a lackluster latte.”

Brittany’s jaw dropped. “You haven’t even tried it yet!”

With a flourish, Paul lifted the latte to his perfect, large lips and sucked at the top, closing his eyes. The move was vaguely sexual, making Brittany feel a lurching desire in her gut. After a long, dramatic pause, he answered.

“I misspoke,” he said, his eyes saying a million things at once. “In essence, this is the best latte the world over. From Paris to Timbuktu to Florida to Tokyo.”

“Even Florida?” Brittany asked, her heart swelling.

“The Sunshine State itself,” he said back. Bringing his watch upward, he glanced at the time and then tilted his head toward the door.

Could he really leave, like all the others? The only one Brittany wanted to stick around? Just to see what kind of witty banter they could drudge up, between them?

“I have a meeting in Manhattan,” he said then, giving a slight shrug. “I hope I haven’t taken too much time from your clearly busy day.” With a flourish, he lifted a five-dollar bill from his pocket and snuck it into the tip jar, giving Brittany a wink. “I hope you’ll have a fine afternoon, my favorite barista.”

Turning quickly, he rushed from Blue Line and joined the sidewalk-strutters, heading toward the corner, where a private, black car was waiting for him. Brittany remained, poised at the register, sensing that he was dripping from her life for good—like water between her fingers.

Sarah snuck up behind her, then, snickering into her ear. She wrapped a slim arm around Brittany’s shoulder, holding her tight. “Don’t think I’ve seen a man look at you with such love since an hour ago.”

“Ha,” Brittany laughed, tossing herself from Sarah’s arms and continuing with the muffins, her heart still beating, showing her fright. “He looks at everyone that way.”

“I don’t think so,” Sarah said, adding her hand to her waist and giving her a sassy expression. “Sure, he’s a billionaire playboy. But he was giving you love eyes.”

“Whatever, Sarah,” Brittany said, her cheeks reddening. “I don’t have time for an affair with someone who probably wouldn’t remember my name afterwards. I have bills to pay. And I have a career to make. Love is for later.”

“Mmm, sure,” Sarah laughed, turning back to the dishes.

The girls didn’t speak for almost a half-hour, with Brittany’s brain running a mile per minute—lost in the fantasy of what her life could be. If only. .