Accidentally Amy
Lynn Painter
Chapter One
“Amy?”
The barista yelled out the name before setting down the cup. Isabella Shay saw that it was a venti pumpkin spice latte, the same drink she’d ordered, and she found herself wildly jealous of PSL Amy, whoever she might be.
Because Izzy wanted - no, needed - to get her drink and get the hell out of there.
If she were a responsible adult, she would’ve seen the long lines and opted NOT to get a coffee that morning, but she was not responsible. It was the first day of the PSL – way later than usual because of supply chain issues - so her annual vice refused to be denied, regardless of the fact that she was starting a new job in T-minus 30 minutes.
Yes, she was taking quite the moronic risk.
Her new employer - Ellis Enterprises - was a big tech company, with a reputation for being environmentally-conscious and employee-friendly. They had workout facilities, a childcare center, free cafeteria, 4pm daily happy hour; Ellis was renowned for being a great place to work, so Izzy was definitely going to punch herself in the face if her lack of self-discipline made her late for her very first day.
“Amy?” The barista said it again, and Izzy looked around the busy coffee shop. There was a group of women at a big table on the other side of the store, all dressed in workout clothes and looking like Barre fitness models; perhaps one of them was Amy.
Izzy felt like PSL Amy was quickly becoming her nemesis.
She glanced down at her phone and stifled a groan. Shit, shit, shit. If they didn’t call out Izzy’s name in the next three minutes – and they probably wouldn’t because there were a LOT of empty cups sitting in front of the espresso machine, waiting to be filled - she was going to have to kiss that six-dollar drink goodbye and abort her mission for caffeine.
“Amy!” The barista said it again, sounding agitated this time, and before she had time to think, Izzy heard herself mutter --
“I’m Amy.”
And she reached out and grabbed the cup.
She knew it was wrong, she really did, but she needed to go and she needed that drink and she’d already paid so it wasn’t really stealing, right? She put her palm over the word AMY, closed her fingers around the cup and turned, ready to sprint out of the shop as fast as her patent leather heels would take her.
But when she turned, she rammed right into a wall.
“Oh!” Ohmigawwwwwd. It wasn’t a wall, it was a rock-hard chest, encased in a starched white dress shirt and a charcoal tie. She stared in horror as her cup crushed on impact, the lid popped off, and hot pumpkin coffee splurted all over the chest. “I’m so sorry!”
She looked up and --whoa.
You know how in movies everything can freeze when a character sees The Big Thing? Well, that was happening to Izzy as she made eye contact with Mr. Chest. He was looking down at her with dark eyes, really intense dark eyes that weren’t so much brown as they were the richest shade of burnt amber. His eyebrows were black, his hair was black, his well-maintained scruff was black and even his suit was black, which all worked together to form some sort of contrasting frame for his face’s ridiculous bone structure and perfectly-shaped mouth.
He was like Roy Kent’s taller American brother or something, and Izzy didn’t think she was physically capable of closing her mouth at that moment.
Until she felt the scalding coffee seeping into her own shirt (thank God it was black).
That made the moment un-freeze itself. Izzy muttered gahhhh, tossed her crumpled cup (RIP PSL) into the trash hole, and grabbed a stack of napkins from the end of the counter.
“I can’t believe I ran right into you,” she babbled, rubbing the clump of napkins over his shirt with one hand while she dabbed at her own with the other. She was kind of mashing the napkins against the man’s chest, patting and dabbing and trying to do anything to make the huge splotch of coffee disappear. “One minute I was grabbing my drink, the next I was ramming your chest with boiling latte. I’m not even sure--”
“It’s fine.” His voice was dark, too, rich and baritone and a little bit raspy. Izzy glanced up and he was giving her a half-smile, like he was amused as she rubbed his pecs, and something about that look made her knees weak. He said, “I hated this shirt anyway.”
She coughed out a laugh, relieved he wasn’t mad. “I did, too, but I didn’t know how to tell you. Hence the PSL.”
He gave a little laugh. “Subtle, but effective.”
Dear lord. Izzy realized she was still feeling him up. Having secured second base with the stranger, she stopped her groping, set the napkins on the bartop beside them and bit down on her lower lip to stop herself from smiling. Because she should feel bad about scalding the man, right? “I really am sorry. I’d be happy to get it drycleaned for you or something…? A better person would offer to replace it, but I have a feeling it’s out of my price range.”
He did the half-bark, half-laugh sound again that Izzy could feel in her toes and he said, “What makes you say that?”
“It’s soaking-wet and I still can’t see through it. That has to mean it’s quality.”
“Were you trying to?” he asked.
“What - see through your shirt?”
He gave a nod.
Izzy shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I was trying, per se, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t checking for a third nipple.”
He didn’t say anything for a minute, still half-smiling but now with a tiny wrinkle between his brows, and she knew her cheeks were turning red. He cleared his throat and said, “I promise there isn’t one, not that there’s anything wrong with having three.”