French Pressed

deserved her privacy, and, frankly, the last thing I wanted to do was drive away a well-trained employee. I was short-staffed as it was, and good technique didn’t emerge overnight in this business; it came with hours and hours of repetitive practice. (Top coffeehouses, ours included, required a barista to train at least three months before pulling even one espresso for a customer.)

Despite her occasional crankiness, Esther really had blossomed as a barista. Her espressos were top-notch, and her latte art skills were nearly at the competitive level. And while I didn’t like her new boyfriend’s taste in music, Esther did seem much less depressed than usual; her jaded eyes were unusually bright, and her pale-as-a- vampire skin was actually flushing with anticipation.

“Okay, you win. I’ll butt out,” I said, but couldn’t stop myself from adding, “Just…don’t get carried away too fast. Get to know him.”

“Duh. Why do you think he’s here?”

“Right,” I said. “Tell you what, since he’s waiting for you and everything, why don’t you just get going now?”

“Really?” Esther checked her watch and pointed to the inventory on the counter. “What about restocking?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll close.”

Amazingly, Esther, queen of the jaded, actually grinned. “Thanks, boss!” she said. Minutes later, my love-struck barista and her new boyfriend were off—and so was the rap music.

In blessed silence, I took off my pinstriped suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of my blouse, tied on my Village Blend apron, and began restocking. I cleaned the tables next, swept the floor, and emptied the garbage cans.

I’d just finished counting the register drawer when I heard the bell over our front door ring. I cursed myself for not locking up after those last two customers wandered out. Looking up, however, I saw it wasn’t a customer. The man walking in was my boyfriend.

Four

The tall, broad-shouldered police detective entered my coffeehouse like he always did, with the commanding authority of a seasoned New York cop. In one sober sweep, he scanned the room to take note of his surroundings, then his arctic-blue gaze came to rest on me and, ever so slightly, his expression melted.

“Hi, Clare.”

“Hi, Mike.”

In a city that hardened everyone—from little old church ladies to pretty-in-pink sorority girls—cops were the hardest cases of all. Mike Quinn was no exception. A square-jawed New York native, he had a long, powerful physique, short, sandy-brown hair, a dry sense of humor, and a load of street smarts from his years working a uniformed beat.

Like your typical poker-faced soldier of law enforcement, Mike didn’t give much away, but I’d been serving him double-tall lattes for well over a year now, and I knew how to read him.

Today, for instance, had been a hard one for him. The shadows under his eyes told me he was coming in here with the weight of a long shift on his shoulders. And the tension in his rugged face told me he hadn’t accomplished what he’d set out to.

“You closed?” Mike asked, his expression still stiff as he swept the empty room once more.

“Depends,” I teased.

“On what?”

“On what you’re here for.”

Mike strode across the wood-plank floor. He took his time stripping off his overcoat, a nicely tailored cinnamon-colored garment, which he’d finally exchanged for that battered old trench he wore in warmer weather. Then off came the beige sport coat, revealing a white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled by the leather straps of his shoulder holster. The butt of his service .45 peeked out from beneath his left arm—a turn-on for me; shameful, but a turn-on nonetheless.

He dumped his coats on one of the high chairs at the espresso bar and sat down. Then he glanced back up, right into my openly admiring eyes.

Since his wife had left him for a younger Wall Street whiz, Mike had been working out a lot more. His upper body was looking more muscular these days, and other parts of him were presumably tighter. This was pure speculation on my part, since (to my growing frustration) our first month of dating had remained chaste.

Oh, sure, there’d been kissing and touching (okay, plenty of kissing and touching), but although he was legally separated, Mike made it clear that he didn’t want us to rush the stages of our fledgling relationship. There were five of these little suckers, according to Mike, and we’d only progressed from stage one to two. What would catapult us to three? I didn’t have a clue.

I figured Mike was gun-shy—understandable, given the lying, cheating, and bipolar nightmares his wife had put him through (like the time she’d left a note informing Mike that she’d pulled the kids out of school and used his nearly maxed-out credit cards to fly them to Florida’s Disney World for a few days—a passive-aggressive reaction to a morning argument).

One thing I was sure of with Mike and me: sexual chemistry wasn’t an issue. Since we’d first met, he and I had flirted openly with each other. He’d been a loyal friend to me during some bad patches, always sticking his neck out to help. In return, I’d tried to be a good listener as he unloaded the problems of his perpetually rocky marriage. Because he was married, however, we’d never pushed for more. But now that he was separated, his wife was living with another man, and we were finally dating, I saw no reason to veil my attraction.

And, clearly, neither did he.

The moment Mike realized I’d been admiring his physique, his sandy eyebrows arched, and he turned the tables, taking his own good time looking me up and down.

Super, I thought, remembering my wretched state.

At the start of the evening, my French-twisted hair had been semi-neat at best. Now I could feel stray strands slipping all over my head. My fitted cocoa suit had been sort of sexy, but I’d taken off the snug jacket to do the closing chores, and I was pretty sure my Village Blend apron held all the allure of a granny smock.

“So, Detective?” My grin turned into a smirk as I loudly blew a loose strand of chestnut hair out of my face. “Make a decision yet? Do you know what you want?”

“The same thing I always want when I come here, Cosi…”

“And what’s that?”

A slow, suggestive smile lifted the weariness in his face. “Stimulation.”

I blinked, speechless for a moment since the sudden rush of blood to certain parts of my body put a strain on my ability to form words.

“Well, then…” I finally managed. “Why in the world are you just sitting there? If you want to be served right, you’ll have to come around my counter.”

He did. Inside of five seconds, Mike was pulling me into his arms. He kissed me deep and long, his hands roving over me, and I felt something different in him…something new. He tugged loose the strings at my neck and waist, yanked the apron off me, and tossed it aside.

My arms lifted high to pull down his head again and get back to the kissing, but the moment my hands locked around his neck, he began dancing me backward—

“Mike?”

With a slight bump, my back end hit the wide work counter beneath the marble espresso bar. He reached behind me, shoving aside two empty milk-foaming pitchers. Then his hands were on my hips, lifting me up. He set my bottom on the cleared counter and stepped between my stocking-clad legs.

“Mike!”

He smiled. “You’re serving stimulation, Cosi. Don’t hold back now.”

This was the most sexually aggressive he’d ever been with me. My skirt was hiked up, his strong thighs between my own, making me understand that there was absolutely no issue with his physically wanting me. With a groan, he started kissing me again, pressing into me.