Page 14 of Kane

Ryder.

Of course, even his name sounds like something straight out of a romance novel. Ryder, the sizzling young barista who makes the older, emotionally unavailable and traumatized son of a psychopath swoon like a damn princess in a Disney flick.

Maybe I should stop reading all these gay romance novels when I should be sleeping. Clearly, they are rotting my brain and not helping matters.

“No,” I grunt defensively. Ryder raises an eyebrow as I shake my head. What the fuck? “I mean, yes, obviously, I—”

“Do you need a minute to look over the menu?” he asks, his voice careful but also strangely judgmental. Probably because I look like a total weirdo, stammering like a damn idiot who doesn’t know how to talk to people.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Am I really this starved that I can’t think straight or speak coherently in the presence of a cute guy who’s probably way too young for me, anyway? Apparently, I am. Which is precisely why I have to ignore that nagging voice in my head.

Food, Kane. You need food. You’re just hungry, is all. Or is it hangry? Is there such a thing as horny-hungry?

I clear my throat again, shaking my head.

“Yeah, actually.”

Ryder nods. “Take your time.”

I glance at him, then at the menu. There’s a myriad of stuff on here, from fancy lattes to iced coffee and tea, and smoothies. It’s a lot.

Too much, in my opinion. What’s wrong with a simple, regular coffee? Why does everything need shots of this and that and whipped cream and what the hell even is cold foam? Isn’t that still whipped cream?

His gaze softens, and his smirk fades a bit as he speaks, pulling my attention.

“Rough day?”

I should tell him to just get me a damn cinnamon roll and a black coffee, and make my way downstairs to indulge in my contraband guiltily in isolation. It would be the smart thing to do, no doubt. But the words that escape my mouth are rougher than they should be; almost as if they’ve been unearthed from a grave deep inside of me, and I make my dumbest mistake yet today.

I answer him. Honestly.

“More like rough life,” I say with a sarcastic smirk. “What do you recommend for that?”

I’m not sure what I expect him to say or do. Maybe just ignore me and ask if I’m ready to order, but that’s not what he does.

Ryder smiles faintly, nodding in understanding.

“Whiskey, honestly.” He chuckles.

I can’t help but laugh at his sweet, smooth voice and the humor in it. And it’s like an entirely new switch has been flipped. One that I didn’t know existed until this very moment.

“I’m more of a beer guy,” I say as he bites his bottom lip, chewing on it.

“Whiskey is only good for funerals and divorce proceedings.”

Ryder laughs, the sound so genuine and carefree, it makes me smile and chuckle myself. The sight, the motion, sends a jolt of electricity through my entire body. When he stops, he shakes his head, that devilish smirk appearing once more, making my cock twitch and my heart flutter.

He’s got a sexy smile if I ever saw one, and I can’t deny the sight alone makes me think of all the ways I could elicit a response like that. What would it take to make him smile other than bad jokes about alcohol? To make him bite his plump lip like that? What would the flesh of his lips taste like between my teeth?

Ryder shrugs as he lets out a sigh.

“Well, I don’t disagree with you, but the best I can do is a Mocha Mushroom coffee, if you’re looking for something to chill you out.”

“Mushrooms? In coffee?” I make a disgusted face. “That sounds terrible.”

Ryder shrugs again. “It’s not that bad.”

“You drink the fungus coffee of your own free will, or do they just pay you to say that?”