He
walked to the door and—oh, heaven.
The coffee aroma drifted from a huge steaming cup sitting in the middle of his
desk. Like he’d seen an oasis on the desert, he hurried toward the cup. Holy
cow. Not just hot but white. Obviously loaded with his favorite cream. He set
down his backpack and grabbed the cup before even taking off his leather
jacket. After a deep inhale, he sipped. Oh
wow, perfect. Eartha hardly ever put in enough cream for him, and this
was—different. Unique. What a flavor.
He
took another swallow, then set it on the desk and took off his jacket, his gaze
already drifting toward his laptop. Cradling his cup, he slid into the chair,
toggled the space bar, and stared at the results from their three pilot
regions, then sighed. Fuck. Not bad, but
sure as hell not good.
“Are
you ready for a refill?” The voice that came from his still-open doorway
sounded like someone had poured extra cream into it as well.
Remy
looked up, bobbled the cup, and splashed white coffee onto his desk and jeans.
“Ow! Shit.”
“Oh
Lord, I’m so sorry.”
By
then Remy was on his feet, brushing at the drops clinging to the denim and
frantically examining his starched white shirt. Before he quite grasped what
was happening, long-fingered hands were brushing at his pant legs from behind,
dangerously close to all kinds of personal items.
Remy
danced in a circle. “Uh, wait. Enough. I got it.” He extended an arm to ward
off the intrusive ministrations and came face-to-face with—who? He’d never seen
the guy before. Young, with straight dark hair that was just that bit too long,
kind of like his own, a slim face with high cheekbones and huge, doe-like eyes
of clearest blue behind dark-rimmed glasses. Adorable nerd came to mind
although it was a strange way to describe a guy. “Who are you?”
The
guy clearly took a breath because his chest in a maroon sweater vest expanded
and his nostrils flared. “Mr. Merced, I’m Harper Treadwell, your new
assistant.”
For
a second nothing quite computed, then his mother’s pronouncement of the
previous day rushed back. “Oh.”
“I’m
so mortified to have gotten off on the wrong foot. I just noticed you seemed to
like the coffee and wondered if you wanted more.”
“The
coffee?” Remy stared at the cup on his desk sitting in a small ring of spilled
french roast.
“How
about I clean that up and get you a new cup?” Harper grabbed the cup, pulled a
real-life hanky from his pocket, and captured the drips, then rushed out of the
office.
Remy
kept staring. His brain must be too exhausted to click into gear, because
whirlwind Harper returned with a brimming cup, a spray bottle of some kind of
cleaner, and a rag before Remy even blinked. Harper carefully set the cup on a
bookcase, sprayed the desk and cleaned it like he was doing art restoration.
Then he lovingly set the cup on the desk and stepped back. “I’ll be happy to
take your jeans to the Laundromat, sir, if you’d like.”
“Wha—no.
Uh, thank you. How did you know about the coffee?”
“Know?”
“About
the extra cream?”
“Oh,
I asked my mama to ask your mama.” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his
nose and then smiled with lots of teeth, but his gaze skittered around. “So how
can I help you this morning?”
