I glance over to see who she’s looking at, and almost immediately the skin on my arms tightens with goosebumps.

The man standing in the doorway is so massive that he blocks almost all the light coming through it. Looking at him, the first word that comes to mind is dark. His hair is black as night, cropped short and no-nonsense in an almost military style. The dark shadow of a beard accentuates his square jaw. Tattoos line his arms below the taut sleeves of his black T-shirt.

As I try not to stare, the man’s deep brown eyes lock on mine. He gives me a lazy, sexy smirk. I draw in a sharp breath and give him a quick nod, then look away.

For the past two weeks, this mass of a man has been coming into my shop about every other day. He always orders a black coffee to go, and sometimes a pastry. He rides a low, black motorcycle whose engine rumble I can recognize immediately by now. It’s a testament to how busy I am today that I didn’t hear him pull up.

The worn leather vest he always wears is adorned with various patches. They tell me he’s a member of a motorcycle club called the Lords of Carnage. One patch on his chest says, “Brick,” which I assume is his name, or a nickname. Another says the word, “Enforcer.”

I know all of this because I’ve spent the last couple of weeks staring everywhere but at his face.

Hailey gives a low whistle. “He’s crazy hot,” she whispers.

“And a little old for you,” I murmur back.

“Well, maybe,” she concedes. “But not for you.”

“He’s a little… tattoo-ey for me,” I reply, keeping my voice light. “Besides, he’s a customer.”

She snorts. “It’s not like there’s some sort of rule against hooking up with someone you sell coffee to.”

“Hailey,” I warn. “Drop it. I have a business to run. And I am not in the market for a boyfriend.”

“Psh,” she dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “Everyone says that. But everyone is.”

I shake my head but don’t try to argue with her. I know the less I protest, the quicker she’ll drop the subject and move on. And I am really not interested in discussing my love life, or lack thereof, with a high school student. Or the relative sexiness of my motorcycle-riding regular customer. Hailey is seventeen going on thirty, and far too nosey for her own good.

Also, maybe a little too perceptive.

Because deep down inside, I have to admit that his tattoos are super hot.

Hailey takes her cell phone out of her back pocket and glances at the time. “I have to go,” she mutters. “See you this afternoon.” She pulls out a couple of bills, and starts to put them on the counter, but I stop her.

“On the house,” I tell her. “Good luck with the math test.”

“Thanks,” she grins, and flicks her eyes toward Brick. “Good luck with Mr. Hottie.”

I resist the urge to reply, and go back to serving customers. The rush seems to be slowing now, thankfully. No one has gotten in line behind Brick yet. I make lattes and mochas as fast as I can take orders. The steam from the machine heats me up, and I start to perspire. I can feel Brick’s eyes on me, and have to resist the urge to reach up and smooth my hair. A trickle of sweat slides down between my breasts.

By the time he gets to the head of the line, I’ve over-rehearsed our conversation in my head enough times that I hope I’ll manage not to sound like a complete dork.

“Good morning,” I say in an overly chatty tone. “The usual?”

He gives me a panty-melting half-grin. “Am I that predictable?” he asks, his voice a deep rumble.

“Medium dark roast, to go, no room for cream, in your to-go cup,” I rattle off automatically. “A blueberry muffin if you’re feeling crazy.”

He laughs, a low, sexy growl that starts way down in his throat. It reminds me weirdly of the sound of his motorcycle engine. “Shit, I guess I am that predictable,” he says, deadpan, and hands me his travel mug. “Maybe I need to branch out a little. What do you recommend?” He glances over at the pastry case.

“Well…” I consider the options. “I just made some apricot-ginger scones. It’s my first day offering them.”

The scone is kind of a challenge, actually. In my experience, big, muscular types like him tend to have a congenital allergy to anything they think of as girly or “foo-foo.” It’s almost like they think it will make their testicles shrivel up and fall off. Scones definitely qualify as one of those things. But to my surprise, he considers it for a moment and then nods. “Sounds kind of good. Okay, you got it.” He glances toward the tables. “And I’ll take my scone for here today.”

“Oh… um, sure,” I say. He’s never stayed here to eat before. I realize I’ve sort of been counting down the seconds until he leaves the shop and I can relax. “In that case, just have a seat.” I give him my best professional smile, wondering if it’s too big and I look like a maniac. “I’ll bring the coffee and scone to your table in a second.”

He pays in cash and stuffs a couple of bills in the tip jar, then goes to sit at a small table in the corner that has a newspaper sitting on it. As he settles in, the three old men stand up from their table and get ready to leave. One of them, a rotund man with a Wilford Brimley look and a crown of silvery white hair, gives me a friendly wave.

“Thank you much, miss,” he calls to me as they reach the door. “We’ll be back again soon!”

“I hope everything was tasty,” I call back as I walk toward Brick’s table with his scone and coffee.

Grouchy Guy sniffs as he follows his friends out the door. “I still say, this is no kind of bakery without kolaches,” he announces to no one in particular, jutting out his chin defiantly.

Brick looks up at me with a frown.

“What the hell’s a kolache?” he asks.