Page 33 of The Risk Taker

“Captain No Fun.”

He exhales through his nose. “I’ll pay extra for a blank one.”

“Nope. Too late.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds likeunbelievable, and I grin to myself as I turn back to the espresso machine.

I lean my elbow against the counter, twirling the marker between my fingers. God, he looks good when he’s annoyed. Which isn’t fair, because I’m already trying really fucking hard not to notice.

He shifts beside the counter, and even without looking, I can tell he’s watching me. I try to focus on the machine, but the awareness creeps in anyway.

He clears his throat after a beat. “I thought you worked at that record shop on Sage Street.”

“I do,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “I work here too.” I grab the cup, pour the shot, and swirl in the milk.

When I slide the drink across the counter, Nathan takes it and I glance up, catching him frown slightly. “Why didn’t you tell anyone you worked here?”

I pause, wiping my palms on my apron. “Didn’t think it mattered,” I say, reaching for a rag.

“It’s your second job?” he asks after a couple of seconds.

“Sometimes third,” I say with a shrug, wiping down the counter. “Depends on the week.”

He’s quiet for a long fucking time, just… watching me, keeping his eyes on me while I try my hardest not to look at him.

“Why lie about it?” he asks finally.

I pause and lift my eyes to his. “I didn’t lie.”

“You didn’t tell anyone,” he counters.

I don’t answer right away, mostly because I don’t have a good reason.

It’s not like I’m ashamed of working here or at the vinyl store or picking up random shifts anywhere that’ll take me. I just… don’t feel like explaining it to guys who don’t have to think about it. Who don’t have to check their bank app before grabbing dinner to see if they can afford it.

“I just like keeping some stuff for myself,” I say, meeting his eyes, catching the golden swirls that flash in the dark brown of his eyes.

He lifts his cup and takes a slow sip of coffee, his eyes still on me, and I can’t tell if he’s zoning out or trying to read something on my face. Either way, my brain won’t shut up about it.

It makes me want to move. Or joke. Or do literally anything to shake off the feeling that he’s seeing more than he’s supposed to.

I clear my throat, grab another cup from the stack, and flip it once in my hand before setting it back down. “You want a punch card? Buy nine, get one free. Big savings.”

That earns the smallest laugh, and the sound brings back that fluttering thing in my stomach again. The hell is that?

I’m about to say something else, maybe another dumb joke, when movement at the counter catches my eye.

There’s a girl standing there. No clue when she walked up. Guess I was too wrapped up in the six-foot-three guy in front of me.

“Hi,” she says, smiling. “Can I get an iced chai latte?”

“Sure,” I say, tapping the counter and giving her a grin. “Oat, almond, or regular?”

“Almond.”

“Coming right up.” I toss her a wink because that’s the job—well, partly the job—and my eyes flick to Hayes for half a second before I turn away. He’s still there. Still watching.

I grab the almond milk, pour, shake, add espresso. When I slide the drink onto the counter, he’s in the same spot, same posture, same unreadable eyes pinned right on me.