Page 49 of An Espresso Machine’s Guide to Love & Mischief

“Does he always look pissed?” Nespresso asks, presumably talking to Janet.

The chef sighs. “Usually. He’s had a rough go of it this past year. Used to be—”

“Janet!” I snap.

“What?” She bats her eyelashes innocently—which actually looks hilarious on the giant dude she’s possessed.

A part of me wants to take the opening she’s giving me and just get all the shit that’s happened out in the open now. I consider it—for the amount of time it takes me to pick up the fork and spear the Pad Thai.

Fuck. I don’t want to be airing out my business after the shit day I’ve had. I don’t want the espresso-possessing pain in the butt soul on the table judging me.

“That shit’s personal,” I snap at Janet.

“Touchy touchy.” She winks and turns to Nescafe. “Don’t be too hard on him, all right? He’s got his reasons.”

“Don’t need you advocating for me,” I snap at her as she strolls away, leaving the cart behind. “Damn nosy soul.”

I debate storming out of the room and taking my food upstairs. I’d much rather eat in my goddamn room where no one tries to argue with me or make my life a living hell. I glare at Coffee Time, then soften. This shit ain’t her fault. She’s the victim in all this. Least I can do is keep her company until the medium gets here.

Chapter 23

Trevor

Nespresso stares at me from across the dining room table. Well, I assume she’s staring at me. She doesn’t actually have a face, or eyes.

“You may be hot,” she says, “but you’re ruder than the goose who stole my Jimmy Choo sandals and locked me in a phone booth.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re just making shit up.”

I like that she thinks I’m hot, but she’s attracted to this body, not the real me. I lucked out possessing this hot fucker—even if the dumbass hasn’t eaten all day.

She snorts. “You’re just grumpy as hell.”

“Hangry,” I say. “I hate it when a body’s starving. Then I gotta deal with this fucking nausea and lightheaded bullshit before I can get him fed.”

“At least you can eat,” Starbucks complains.

“Touché. But fucking hell, even that homeless woman ate more shit than this dude. Good on her.” I shovel noodles into my mouth and let out a satisfied sigh.

“Gross. Don’t you have any manners?” she snaps.

“Sorry, did I forget to offer you some?” I hold up my plate and raise an eyebrow. “No? Suit yourself.”

“Har-har,” she says as I go back to eating. “But tell me what whiskey you’re drinking. That way I can at least imagine.”

I lift the glass and give it a sniff. Perfection. I take a small sip and swirl it in my mouth, enjoying the feel of it. “Glenfiddich.”

“Good choice. I can almost taste it.” Her voice is filled with longing. “Kalimotxo was my drink of choice.”

“The fuck’s that?” I ask as I return to my food.

“Red wine and Coke. Do you live under a rock?”

“No, I live in Toronto.”

“Then you need to get out more. One time I drank the Sourtoe Cocktail in Dawson City. Accidentally swallowed the toe.”

“The what?” I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth.