“Whoa, Mike,” I murmured against his mouth. “You know there’s a perfectly good bed upstairs.”
“I know…” His lips moved off mine, trailed kisses along my jaw. “And if I had time, we’d be on it right now.”
“You mean it?” I gently pushed at his chest.
He leaned back. “Clare, I’ve been on duty for the past ten hours, and all I can think about is
“Really?”
He sighed, rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I think about you every day, Clare, and every night. Especially at night. I’m losing sleep. I
“What do you mean
“Just that…” He shook his head. “Forget it. I can’t wait anymore, sweetheart. You’re messing with my focus on the job. We can’t have that.”
“No, we can’t,” I said, practically giddy. “So let’s go upstairs.”
Mike checked his watch and sighed. “I’m only being spelled for thirty. Not that I couldn’t make the earth move in that time—” He smiled. “But there’s no way I want our first time to be a quickie.”
“Yeah…I don’t want you leaving me—after. Come back later, when you’re off, when you can stay.”
“Okay…” He nodded, kissed me again. Then he lifted me off the counter.
“Come on up to the duplex in the meantime,” I told him, tugging my skirt back down over my thighs. “I’ll press you a pot of my new Morning Sunshine Blend before you have to get back. It’s a Full City roast, so it has more caffeine than your regular latte, and stimulation
“You don’t have to tell me.”
He grabbed his blazer and overcoat off the bar chair, and I picked up my apron. Then I switched off the main lights and, before heading upstairs,
“So what’s the job tonight?”
Standing at the marble counter, I pushed the plunger down on the French press. The coarsely ground beans filled the apartment’s cozy kitchen with arousing, floral notes. Mike made a show of inhaling the aroma.
“Mmmm…nice,” he said, his eyes following my every move as I filled our mugs. Then I bent over to grab a carton of half-and-half from the fridge’s bottom shelf, and Mike murmured, “Even nicer…”
I turned around. “Mike, did you hear me? I asked what’s up with your job tonight.”
The detective arched an eyebrow. “If you want me to focus, Cosi, then
“Mike!”
“What?” He plucked the carton of half-and-half from my hand and dumped a little splash of light into his pool of black. “You have no idea how distracting that ass of yours is.”
“Go ahead,” I warned, “keep up the suggestive talk, and
“I’ll try,” Mike said behind smiling eyes. Then he downed a few healthy swigs of my coffee and sighed, letting the hot, fresh blend revive him.
The sudden jaguar yell echoed off the kitchen walls. I glanced around to find its source, which was not in fact a 300-pound carnivore, but a 10-pound female house cat with the lungs of a famished jungle beast.
“Sounds like you forgot to feed Java,” Mike remarked, glancing around. “Where is she? Java!”
“I’ll have you know I fed her a delicious dinner. She’s just protesting now because all she got was cat food.”
“Excuse me? She is a
I shook my head. “You just don’t understand…”
White whiskers and two coffee bean–colored paws peeked out from under the kitchen table. Then Java’s whole furry form slinked out, and she began to rub herself against Mike’s leg. He reached down to scratch her head.
“Watch out,” I warned. “She’ll think you’re a soft touch.”
“I am.” Mike met my eyes. “Depending on the feline.”
He gently picked up Java and set her on his lap. Parts of my body melted as Mike’s hand steadily stroked her: long, sweet, gentle strokes. I sighed.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” Mike said. “If she doesn’t want cat food, what does she want?”
“Human food, of course.” I folded my arms. “She probably smells the butter-browned lobster on my breath from dinner. Sorry, Java honey, I ate every bite. No leftovers.”
Mike laughed. “I can see that went over well.”
“Here…” I went to the cupboard, found a can of Pounce kitty treats. “Give her a few of these. They’re lobster
“Hungri-tude?” He popped the can. Java’s ears instantly perked up.
“It’s what you get when hunger and attitude collide in a self-actualized female tabby.”
Java jumped down, and Mike threw her a few of the triangular-shaped treats. My companionable but languorous feline began scampering across the floor like an excited kitten, catching and eating each tiny triangle as if it were a fat mouse.
I might have accused the cat of having no shame, but then I probably would have joined her on the floor if Mike had started throwing out some of those champagne-poached oysters I’d devoured earlier in the evening.
Since Pounce treats were all he was tossing, however, I sat my “distracting ass” down across the table and lifted my own coffee mug. The swallow I took was long and satisfying. My Morning Sunshine was an even cleaner and brighter experience than our regular Breakfast Blend, thanks to my ex-husband.
Matteo had found us an exquisite crop of Yirgacheffe during a trip to Ethiopia, so I decided to make good use of it by creating the special blend. I savored the hints of lemon and honey blossom that the Yirgacheffe brought to the party. They also provided an amazingly juicy finish—the kind of salivation you’d get after a luscious bite of citrus fruit.
It was the perfect cup for my morning customers, because I’d stopped the roasting process at medium, so a healthy mug of it provided a higher caffeine content than a demitasse of espresso.
In my professional opinion, my Morning Sunshine was a superb, eye-opening coffee to wake up with— whatever time of day one needed waking. And I could certainly see, from Mike’s weary demeanor, he needed it tonight.
“So…what’s your duty?” I asked him again.
“I’m supervising three undercover teams at three different nightclubs.” Mike tossed Java another treat. This time she rose up on her hind legs and caught the treat with her two front paws.
Mike pointed. “Look at that. Java does tricks.”
“She’s just showing off for her new boyfriend.”
Mike laughed and threw another treat.
“So tell me what’s happening at the nightclubs. Drug sales? Assaults?”
“Confidence game,” he told me.
“A single perpetrator?”
“At least four, probably six. We’re calling them the May-September gang.”
