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Prologue
“When will today’s most eligible billionaire bachelor in business settle down and start a family to found his dynasty?”
Fools. Imbeciles. I don’t read the business pages for idle gossip about people’s love lives. I particularly don’t want to read about my own non-existent love life.
Don’t the editors have any real business to print stories about? I read for information. If I wanted tattle, I would bury my nose in the society or entertainment pages. That’s where I expect to find the lives of celebrities exposed, with the non-stop train-wrecks of their private goings-on.
I had a love life. I never intend to have another one, thanks all the same. Yes, I want children; for sure. Wanda was not even willing to give me that. But first I’ll put a suitable home together, then I can find a way to adopt. Take care of some children who’ve been abandoned or lost in the system. Too many kids have their potential overlooked and wasted. I can fix that for a few of them, at least.
But for now, all I’m thinking about is building the Hot Start empire into the biggest coffee chain in the world. I aim to overtake The Morning Rise, even with its global reach. I will create a fortress of wealth that nothing can dent.
And I don’t need a lying, treacherous partner to detonate it all and blow it out from under me.
Not again.
Chapter One
Cyntia
I arrived for my interview a few minutes early. Apart from the barista and me, the only other occupant in the shiny little coffee bar is the dark-eyed man in the perfectly tailored business suit. Older, maybe borderline silver fox.
When he sauntered to his table with a big togo cup, his swagger made me think, Hey, Joe, before I realized it came from a song. Something like, Where you gonna go with that gun in your hand? Now I’m suppressing a grin.
He looks at me as he sets his coffee on the table. The glow in his gray eyes burns all the way down to set a tingle in my thighs. Looking as sharp as he does, he seems perfectly in place here. This little corner property is the impeccable headquarters of JavaLava, a small, local boutique coffee chain.
JavaLava is not going to displace Cafe du Monde as the local destination coffee house, but for everyday caffeine needs, it’s a strong contender.
He has a hungry look in his eye, like he might be seeing me as a pastry or a cupcake. I sag inside, thinking that I’m more of a box of donuts or an oversized chocolate cake.
A sadly untouched chocolate cake. He makes me wish I had experience, something to offer. I know it’s idiotic, but I so wish someone like him would desire me. He wears that suit so well, it makes me want to sigh. Especially those pants.
He’s distractingly large and insanely hot. His hair is perfect, and he has high, sharp cheekbones. And dimples. I’m a complete pushover for a dimple. He also has bulges. One eye-watering standout in particular.
My hair is scraped back, my white shirt is as snappy as any barista’s. The black pants I chose grip my ass more closely than I would like. I prefer to keep my generous curves more under wraps, but tight is tidy, and tidy looks efficient so, tight it is.
I made myself super-neat in my smart interview clothes. For an office job, it’s always best to shine up with a little glamor. I got my gig in the bookstore with baggy jeans and a cool tee-shirt. A barista’s work is in food service, so the most important first impression is to be extra tidy and squeaky clean. Kitchen clean.
Everything seems to be telling me I don’t want this job. That I shouldn’t be working for JavaLava. But do I know that I need this job, and I have to get it. Yesterday Andreas, the nice barista, told me I was the first to apply for the position. As he wrote my name down he asked, like everyone does, if I was spelling it correctly.
“Cyntia? No ‘H’?”
I nodded. His eyebrows twitched.
He made this afternoon’s appointment with Henry Hoggart for me on the spot.
I was grateful. Even casual barista positions often require phone interviews first. Not that I mind the interviews — well, they grind my nerves — but I want a job I can start immediately. I need to be earning.
When I go into Mr. Hoggart’s office, I know that I’ll have to stand, giving the man in the suit a clear and close-up view of my luxury model, family-serving-sized ass.
Ah, well, Joe. I guess we’re just not meant to be. Damn shame, though.
The owner’s office door opens, and he peers out. He doesn’t exactly smile, but he waves and says, “Okay, I’m ready.”
I stand. The hot guy in the designer suit stands at the same time, and we’re both turning toward the owner’s door. We’re too close. All there is between us is his coffee cup. Under the sheen of that Zegna suit, he’s got more hot, bulging muscles than any man has a right to.
Before I can stop myself, I gabble, “You’re not here for the…” I’m about to say ‘interview,’ but the grande latte in his open twenty ounce togo cup takes a leap into the air. Then it turn. Spins. Out jumps a perfect, huge, single, globular droplet.
Like an anvil in a cartoon, it’s suspended for an instant, looking like it might stay there. Hanging, innocent, frozen in the air.
