lunged for the toaster in time to rescue six carbonated squares of Hovis white sliced. “Fuck’s sake.”
Irritation spread through him, adding to the stress of what had already been a shitty day. And it was barely eleven. The lunchtime rush was still to come, and if it went anything like breakfast, it was going to be murder.
He spun around to hurl the bread in the bin. Fresh loaves were stacked on the counter. Consumed by the twelve orders on the pass, Paolo blurred there and back without glancing up, but a lifetime spent serving fry-ups to the good—and bad—people of the neighbourhood had left him attuned to the presence of someone waiting at the counter. “Be with you in a minute, mate.”
No reply was forthcoming. Paolo shook his head. Idiot was probably lost in their phone, oblivious to the world around them like every other knobhead out there. Who’s got time for that shit?
Paolo didn’t. He loaded up a dozen plates, delivered them, and prepared himself to face whoever he’d kept waiting for ten minutes. Have a pop. I dare you.
He expected a tradesman or a hipster from the bank wanting “chai tea” when all Paolo stocked was Tetley, but as he reached the counter and finally looked up at the man flipping through the local rag, the six foot streak of brooding gorgeousness caught him off guard. Wow. This never happened.
Paolo had worked in the family cafe as long as he’d been able to walk and could count on one hand the fit blokes who’d walked in the door and turned his head. It was a sum total of two. Dante Pope and his younger brother Luis, but it had been a long time since either Pope brother had graced the high street. Rumour had it, Dante was running a county lines empire from his tower block apartment on Moss Farm while Luis Pope had been in prison for years. So long, Paolo had assumed he was never getting out and had forgotten all about him.
It’s not him. It can’t be.
But the more Paolo stared at the man at the counter, the harder it was to deny. Luis Pope had aged in the years he’d been gone, but fuck, if it hadn’t made him hotter. Like fine wine, time had chiselled his boyish good looks. His shoulders had broadened, and his hair had grown out. Dark stubble covered his strong jaw, and beneath his thin T-shirt, his torso was a long, rippled line of sinewy strength. He was . . . beautiful. Shame Paolo couldn’t stand him. Fucking waste man. What’s he even doing in here?
There was no way to find out without asking. Paolo wiped his hands on his apron. “What can I get you?”
Luis Pope kept his eyes on the newspaper, full bottom lip caught between his teeth, brows furrowed. Paolo wanted to punch him and rescue his pillowy lip in equal measure.
He settled for rapping his knuckled on the newspaper. “Hello?”
Luis flinched. It was infinitesimal, and his jaw set a split second later, but Paolo saw it and filed it away in the what the fuck section of his brain. Luis Pope didn’t flinch. In his day, a mere mention of his name had sent shivers down the spines of those who’d had cause to fear him. Too busy keeping the family business afloat, Paolo had never been one of them, but the Pope brothers were infamous. Gangsters, road men, whatever. Luis Pope was a name, not a man who startled so easily.
Paolo tried again. “What do you want?”
Luis gaze flicked to the chalkboards above Paolo’s head. “Tea, please.”
“Anything else?”
“A job if you still have it.”
He’d have surprised Paolo less if he’d stripped naked and asked for a hand job. Paolo blinked. “What?”
“The job in the window,” Luis said. “If it’s still available, I’d like to apply.”
“You want to wash dishes and bus tables?”
It was Luis’s turn to blink. Shock coloured his hazel eyes, and a faint flush stained his cheeks. “Yeah, actually. I do, but if the position’s been filled, I’ll just take the tea.”
The position had been vacant for the best part of a month, ever since Paolo’s last staff member had deserted him to go to university. There’d been other applicants, but trial shifts hadn’t gone well. Apparently, Paolo lacked the patience to train anyone to the standard needed to be of any use to him. And, according to the one who’d fled the cafe just yesterday, he was an arsehole.
A desperate arsehole