Page 30 of This Life of Mine

Her eyes light up with unmistakable mischief. “I think you should go ask him yourself. And while you’re at it, maybe get his name? And, oh I don’t know…his number?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

I groan. “Oh my god, you aresomischievous.“ I grin, already resigned. “I’ll go ask—but only about the food.”

The entire team has tried to set me up at least a dozen times—friends of friends, customers, cousins, dating apps that “happened” to download on my phone.

Kay sighs dramatically. “Boring,” she drawls.

I scoff, but I can’t stop the small smile creeping onto my face as I turn toward the cafe tables.

I walk up to Mr. M and summon my business-owner’s smile.

“Hi,” I say, stopping beside him, acutely aware of the distance separating us. “I’m so sorry, but Kay completely forgot to putin your dinner order—and unfortunately, also forgot what you asked for.” I offer a small, apologetic smile.

“I’m heading back into the kitchen anyway, so I figured it would be easier to ask you directly and have your order out shortly.”

Mr. M leans back slightly in his chair, studying me.

And then…he smirks.

And damn this man to hell for having such an unlawfully attractive smirk.

“I see,” he says smoothly. “I’m surprised Kay forgot. I usually order the Italian focaccia sandwich.” His smile deepens as he adds, “And byusually, I mean nearly every evening for the past couple of weeks.”

I blink then close my eyes briefly, realizing what game Kay played.

“I’m…so sorry about that.”

Mr. M reaches up, removes his glasses, and sets them on the table with quiet care. The gesture suggests he’s making room between us.

He leans fully into the chair, still smirking as he crosses his arms over his chest.

The movement pulls his sleeves tight, fabric stretching over muscle that looks hard-earned.

Veins faintly visible beneath his inked skin. They threaten to burst free from the restraint of cotton and tailoring, as if his body doesn’t quite belong to something so civilized.

For a brief second, I forget why I came over at all.

“That’s quite alright.” He says.

There’s an ease to him—a contained power that doesn’t demand attention but somehow commands it anyway.

He watches me steadily, unreadable, waiting. And instantly the distance between us grows smaller, charged, like the air before a storm.

“It’s a great sandwich,” he continues. “I hear the owner makes the bread from scratch.” His gaze lingers, curious. “That’s probably why I enjoy it so much. It reminds me of being back east.”

The cafe noise fades into the background, leaving me holding his attention—and the quiet realization that I’m standing here gawking.

“That would be me,” I blurt. “Co-owner and bread maker.”

Bread maker? Why did I say that?

His expression shifts, something softer settling behind the confidence. “I thought so,” he admits, gesturing subtly toward the wall behind me. “I saw the article about the shop’s opening. The one with the photo of you and your business partner.”

He looks back at me, earnest now. “Everything I’ve had here tastes amazing. But more than that, it’s the atmosphere. This place is very well-thought-out. Inviting. It’s evident you and your partner care deeply about how this place makes people feel.”

The compliment lands deeper than I expect.

I nod, offering a small smile. “That means more to us than you probably realize.”