Definitely not the average Story tourist. At least that explained the motorcycle cacophony.
“Afternoon, sir.” Agnes pinned him with a stare that clearly expressed how she expected him to ride his motorcycle through the front door—and that she was absolutely not okay with it. “You needing directions?”
Surely. No way was he there for a petit four. Still, maybe they could sell him something before he hit the street again. She stood, attempting to soften Agnes’s words with her best smile. “Or maybe a cup of coffee?”
His dark eyes darted between the two of them, and he set his backpack in an empty chair a few tables away. “Maybe. Is it any good?”
Bri’s smile faltered. “I like to think so.”
“Just you?” He laid the jacket on top of his pack, and Bri felt her mouth threaten to unhinge.
She crossed her arms over her apron instead, gathering her composure. “No, not just me. Apparently so do the other customers who have tried it.”
“Ah.” His voice held a trace of an accent, but not one Bri could immediately place. A little bit of Yankee, a little bit of southern drawl . . . where was this guy from? “I can see business is booming.” He cast a doubtful glance around the empty establishment.
Bri lifted her chin, her need to defend the bakery burning strong. “It has been. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Pastry Puff Matchmakers on YouTube?”
“That’s right. We went virus.” Mabel beamed proudly, seemingly oblivious to their customer’s rudeness.
“Viral. We went viral.” Agnes barked the correction with a shake of her head. “She hasn’t gotten that right a single time yet. Though I still don’t fully understand the doohickey on the computer myself.”
“Viral, virus, tomay-to, tomah-to.” Mabel waved her hand dismissively. Then her eyes widened. She reached toward the stranger, who took an automatic step back. “We’re not sick, though, don’t worry.”
He raised one eyebrow.
Mabel gestured eagerly between her and Agnes. “We’re the love angels.”
“Stop it.” Agnes pushed her sister’s hand down with a huff. “I told you that was a ridiculous name.”
Mabel sniffed. “It is not. It’s cute. And catchy.”
“I’ve heard of you.” His deep baritone interrupted the pending argument.
Mabel stuck out her tongue at her sister. “See?”
Bri, mind racing, reached for the still-warm carafe. He’d actually heard of their café? He didn’t seem the type to sit around watching videos about small-town romance. But hey, he was still a guy—maybe he just really liked baked goods.
She tried to start over, ignore his sarcasm. “So, coffee?”
“I guess.”
She hesitated, looking up for confirmation. He was edging closer to the display counter, and the closer he came, the taller she realized he was. At least six-two, maybe six-three. And those muscles.
His dark eyes met hers, and she gripped the handle of the carafe tighter as a blush heated her throat. Hopefully he hadn’t read her thoughts.
She stammered to get them back on the matter at hand. She lifted the carafe. “How do you take your coffee? If you’d rather, I can whip you up a latte or a cappuccino or a cinnamon mocha—”
“Black.”
Of course he drank it black. She had half a mind to pour some sugar in it when he wasn’t looking, just to see if it would sweeten him up a bit.
Her shoulders stiffened. It wasn’t often people didn’t respond to her friendliness with friendliness in return. The often-cranky Mayor Hawthorne always cheered up when she presented him with a smile and a macaron after stressful town meetings. And once when Charles’s ex-girlfriend came into the bakery in a jealous fit over a misunderstanding, Bri had talked her down with a latte and a hot mini-donut.
Her half-fake smile went into full façade. “For here, or to go?” Hopefully to go. She really didn’t see any reason for him to hang around, not with that attitude. She automatically reached for the stack of paper to-go cups.
“For here.”
She yanked her hand back, and the stack of cups tumbled and fell in a heap on the counter. “Really?” The word blurted from her lips before she could censor it, and she quickly pressed her glossed lips together as she gathered the spilled cups.
“You love angels always this friendly to your customers?” A smirk lifted one corner of his mouth, which she couldn’t help but notice was surrounded by what seemed to be a permanent five-o’clock shadow. As if even his facial hair had a stubborn will of its own.
She straightened the stack of cups. “I’m not a love angel.” That was Mabel and Agnes’s self-proclaimed title—she was no matchmaker. But she sort of had a feeling clarification wasn’t what this stranger was after.
“That’s for sure.” His first smile since he’d walked in the room.
“What is that supposed to mean?” She set the carafe down harder than she’d intended, and coffee splashed onto the counter. She reached for a paper napkin.
“Hey.” He tapped two fingers on the counter. “You’re wearing an apron.”
She tossed the soiled napkin into the trash can under the counter and smoothed the front of her pink, lacy apron. “I’m aware.” Captain Obvious. She felt proud that the term didn’t verbally dart from her mouth. At least she still had some self-control in front of this sullen stranger.
“Are you?” He leaned one elbow against the glass countertop, the one she’d just cleaned a few hours ago, and drew closer. The scent of evergreen wafted over her. “Then why didn’t you use it for the spill?”
That was such a man thing to say. “Why on earth would I use my apron when there’s a perfectly good napkin right beside me?”
“So, it’s a costume, not a functioning apron.” He tilted his head, dark eyes narrowing as they assessed her. “That doesn’t make me very confident in the quality of your coffee.”
Her cheeks flushed hot. “Then why are you still standing here? Go drink it and find out for yourself.”
“You still haven’t given me any.”
Oh, for the love of—
She poured his coffee into a mug, purposefully choosing the one with red hearts just
