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“Hunk of crap,” I whisper. The ancient thing was probably on theTitanicwith its boxy monitor that’s big enough to fit Nana’s flower garden inside.
One day, it’ll give up the ghost, just like everything else here, but I don’t dare replace it.
Not when revenue looks so thin I’ll be lucky to buy an ink cartridge for the printer next quarter.
My chest swells as I sigh and melt into my chair.
The spring menu’s pushing new coffees and light pastries, but they’re lower ticket items for a fast-casual customer base.
Two weeks ago, the ovens randomly stopped firing and our accountant retired, meaning we had to shell out big bucks for a new guy with triple the fees.
Not to mention the payroll needed to run this place, cutting deeper and deeper into my skeletal profits.
My projected turnover, if these damn numbers are to be trusted, looks like—
Well, let’s just say it’s litterbox territory.
Instead of pressing my face into my hands and screaming until my throat rips—totally reasonable under the circumstances—I lean forward until my forehead thunks against the screen.
The veryhotscreen.
Which almost certainly shouldn’t be hot enough to slow cook an egg.
“Oh, no. Oh, shit,” I hiss, shoving back and almost knocking the giant machine off the creaking desk.
That’s when Emmy pokes her head in.Perfect timing.“Hey, Junie!” she says, tucking her static curls back with one hand. “There’s a guy waiting at the register.”
I rub the sore spot on my forehead, grinding my teeth.
A guy? What guy?
The only kind I meet.
Another rude prick expecting the red-carpet treatment and a lifelong discount because his espresso was three degrees too cold.
But it’s my store. I’m effectively the boss and I’m expected to defuse every temper tantrum that comes barreling through the door.
I didn’t say I wasgoodat it. I’m only slightly better at customer relations than I am at math.
My armpits are already sweaty in this heat. Missouri summers always have that merciless phase and we’re in the thick of it.
God, if I have to choose between replacing the archaic computer and functioning air conditioning, I’ll be in real trouble.
I suck in a breath and step away from the glaring monitor, hoping to leave my nervous breakdown behind with the overheated machine.
Maybe by the time I return, the numbers will magically change.
“Lead the way, Emmy,” I say with way more enthusiasm than I feel, fanning a bit of much-needed air up my shirt before following her to the front and the asshat waiting for us.
And what anasshat.
Holy hell, I wasn’t ready for this breed of scary-hot alpha male to be standing at my counter, waiting to tear my face off.
I expected a scowling prick—and let’s be honest, he certainlyisone—but he’s a finalist for world’s hottest prick.
Toweringly tall? Check.
Dark-blue eyes flashing with sin? Yes.
