Page 4 of Blush Crush

That’s rich, coming from a man who looks like he stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog.

I roll my eyes. “You’re not funny.”

He’s leaning against my work table, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks, a smug, knowing smile sitting on his stupidly handsome face.

“Look at you, getting all hot and bothered. I had no idea that was your type.”

“Can you not say things like that?” I whisper-shout. “I’m actively trying not to die of humiliation.”

Cole lifts one shoulder. “Just calling it like I see it.”

“Well, stop seeing it,” I snap, shoving the boxed chocolate croissant at him harder than necessary.

“Ohhh. She’s feisty tonight.” He laughs and tilts his head. “Poetry Pete got you all worked up?”

“Do you want the croissant or not?”

“I want the croissant,” he says sweetly. “And the drink with the little leaf design?—”

“No drink. We’re closed, and the machines have already been cleaned.”

“Aw. No special exceptions for the landlord?”

“No special exceptions ever.”

Instead of hitting me with a comeback, he digs into the box as if someone might snatch it from him and aggressively bites into the croissant.

Technically, we ran out of croissants before lunch, but since Cole is in the habit of coming in and getting one, I usually set one aside for him.

“Fuck, doll.” He moans. “I don’t know what you put in these, but I think it’s addicting.”

“Sugar is more addictive than heroin, so yes, they are addictive.”

He shakes his head, laughing around a mouthful before swallowing. “Next time just say, ‘You’re welcome, Cole. Anything for you, Cole. I make them just for you, Cole.’“

I snort. “Those words will never come out of my mouth. I’ll leave that to your string of flavors. What’s this month’s name? Ashley? Madison?”

“Kennedy,” he corrects. “Didn’t realize you were paying attention. You want next month? Got an open slot for you.” He wiggles his brows.

I make a gagging noise. “Ew. No thank you.”

He wipes some of the chocolate that’s gathered at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, unbothered by my rejection. “Speaking of flavors…you seeing that guy?”

“What? No. He’s a professor at Prentiss who needed a space for his summer poetry workshop.”

“Your googly eyes said otherwise.”

I blow out a breath, puffing the loose strands of hair away from my face. “I might have a teensy, tiny little thing for him.”

“Isn’t that guy a little old for you?”

My eyes pinch, forehead creasing. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. I think he’s only slightly older than you.”

His lips lift in a smirk. “Didn’t realize you were comparing us.”

My face deadpans. “I’m not. Pretty sure he’s thirty-eight.”

I’m not pretty sure. I’m sure. I had to look at his license when I was filling out the contract for reserving the shop. I also might have glanced at his address, not that I’m creepy or desperate enough to do anything with that knowledge. Though he does live awfully close to my coffee shop.