Mocha for mateo - chapter one |
Customers to Pier Three Coffee often walked in and pulled a dramatic, aroma-inhaling pose. Alicia’s baristas called it the SuperBean Stance.
It wasn’t that Alicia Wells didn’t love the smell, too. She’d morphed into a coffee snob in college, and converted both her brothers while she was at it. Their shared addiction to a quality caffeine fix helped her brothers fall in with her plan to use their grandparents’ inheritance to open a progressive independent coffee shop in their not-so-little-anymore town of Surfside. Just close enough to the Bay Area to enjoy the perks of Northern Californian life, and full enough of tourists and college students to funnel a steady stream of customers their way.
They’d succeeded, so far, navigating more than their share of emotional and logistical obstacles. As long as they spent most of their waking hours working on it.
But she made sure, in the narrow slice of time between waking and working, to allow herself a moment to lean against the building and stare out towards the Pacific Ocean. Although it was past sunrise, the fog in front of her and the mountains behind her obscured the incoming tide. She didn’t need to see the waves to be captured by them. She breathed in deep, savoring the salt air. A lesson she learned after her first few days living above the coffee shop: seize every chance to take in scents that weren’t ground beans. All too soon, she would be enveloped by everything about Pier Three. Alicia loved the place, had spent three years fighting like a mythic boss for the place, but needed to keep a sliver of herself separate from it.
And separate from her siblings. When they’d converted the old bait shop to a cafe, they’d also refurbished the apartment perched in its cupola. Her rent was low, with the trade-off that she was the partner to open up Pier Three Coffee each morning.
Always an early riser, it was no burden. And it fulfilled her need for privacy; Abraham and Austin still shared a two-bedroom in the apartment complex their parents owned, up near campus. She’d been living above the cafe long enough now to almost sleepwalk through her opening routine: unlock the employee entrance, turn on lights, check nothing had gone wrong overnight with the plumbing or fridges or anything, put the day’s special blend in the grinder. Stretch and let the promise of her first macchiato bring her body alive.
Loiter in the doorway.
Meet the bakery van.
Check to see if Mateo was driving.
He didn’t always. Mateo and his parents owned James Family Bakers, and sometimes events in their storefront meant he delegated the morning delivery run. Around seventy-four percent of the time—Alicia sometimes did math in her head for fun; it wasn’t obsessive of her to know the statistic—Mateo was the one whose broad shoulders towered over the steering wheel as he nosed the van into the small parking area at the base of her staircase. Mateo's bare arms unlatching and hauling down the two-wheel dolly. Mateo's back flexing as he stacked up trays of scones and muffins and stuffed breads and paleo seed cakes, all ready to tempt the customers of Pier Three.
“Hey, A.”
“M.”
He did the thing with his cheek. The little flex that hinted he wasn’t as laid back as his tone suggested. “Anyone else around?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
She waited. Not a hardship, the waiting. The van almost radiated yeasty warmth and sweet spices through the open doors. She drifted closer. “Busy morning?”
He shrugged. “Nothing unusual.”
“Smells like a cardamon brioche day.” Alicia leaned into the van to better capture the enticing odors that always evoked Mateo for her. In a regular van, the area would hold passenger seats, but for the bakery, a rack of deep shelves were bolted in where the third row of seats would be, and storage for the dolly and some supplies took the place of second-row seats. He slammed the van’s rear door and wheeled the laden dolly through the shop’s door. She followed.
In an effort to not ogle his ass while he unloaded his buns onto her shelves, she turned to starting up the day’s first urn of drip coffee and updating the specials board. He emerged from the kitchen as she stowed the white board markers under the counter. “Got time for a coffee?”
Mateo shook his head. She felt ridiculous for noticing how his forearm flexed as he drew the dolly to a halt at the back door. But he extended that forearm her way, and the buzzing under her skin abated as they made contact. A few side-by-side steps, and she hitched herself into the van’s interior while he slid the empty bakery trays into place.
She’d never set out to be so familiar with his routines. It felt habit-forming in the worst way. Too addictive and too everyday and too centered on him instead of her. None of that was on her fuck-buddy checklist.
In the pro column, though, Mateo turned her on. Each of his movements, no matter that he was just doing his job, felt like a performance for her. The stretch of his muscles under his t-shirt, the silent-but-steady gauging of her pleasure, the way he flashed his eyes her direction while she arranged herself in his space. The direct, unambiguous way he approached her and gave her a look she could read no matter how diffuse the sun’s early morning light in their enclosed corner of the world.
As she grabbed the overhead straps and pulled herself to her knees on the floor of the van, Mateo filled the inches between them so they were eye-to-eye, breath-to-breath. “Impatient today?”
She shrugged, as much as she could while half-dangling. “Weird dream about my grandmother. Thought I could clear the mental air with something more cheerful, you know?”
The man spent a great deal of time chopping ingredients, kneading and forming doughs, reaching into hot ovens with little regard for burns. Made zero sense, how he could smooth his much-abused fingers so soft over her brow and make her relax. He leaned into her, sent one hand skimming over the crown of her head and down her spine, so they ended up chest-to-chest.
She kissed him. He opened to her, tugging until they leaned together, his warmth as comfortable and welcome as that of the fresh-baked loaves beside them. Sometimes she wondered, away from these stolen dawn moments at the employee door, if his kisses, his touches, would enfold her the same way elsewhere. If they were in his apartment in the foothills. If she let him spend the night in her bed. If they came together anywhere besides his van, or the shadows of the parking lot, or quickly, when there was time, up in her room.
Enough ridiculous speculation. She dropped a hand down to his ass, stroked the familiar hard curve, tucked her fingers under his waistband.
His cock responded, but he broke the kiss. “Can’t today.”
“Thought you weren’t busy.”
“Yeah, no.” Mateo's hands were no more in agreement with this plan to skip morning sex than was the rest of his body. She arched as he palmed up the sides of her flannel shirt. They both groaned when her nipples tightened between them. His voice was as rough as his calloused palms. “Nothing unusual, except volume. Got to stick on schedule.”
“Or be a few minutes late but ready to whistle while you work,” she suggested, rocking her belly against his erection. She was balanced on the very edge of the van’s threshold; if not for the blanket pad he always tossed right where she could rest on it, her knees would ache. But in his own not-talkative way, Mateo paid attention to things like that. Her comfort. Her needs. Her boundaries about how far he could intrude into her life.
Which—unfortunately for her libido—didn’t put him at her beck and call. “No can do,” he said, drawing back an inch that felt like a foot.
She dropped back to sitting. Reached for the sandals she’d slipped off during the kiss. “Well, damn.”
“Damn indeed. Would so love to be fucking you right now.”
She didn’t need to say the feeling was mutual. He knew.
“I have something for you, though.”
“Oh?” She glanced down, but his hand was only near his crotch so he could draw a baggie out of his front pocket. Alas.
“Not that.”
“Spoil sport.”
He snorted. “Spoiling my own fun, too, you know. Anyhow, here.”
A light thud on the back of the van put them both on alert, turning outward.
“Hands off my sister, please,” Abraham called from just out of sight.
She rolled her eyes but stepped clear of the van and smoothed down her shirt. It wasn’t a secret that she and Mateo hooked up some mornings, and if her big brother couldn’t deal with the idea of her having sex, that was his own issue. Still, she wasn’t used to him showing up so early, and the irritation in her voice masked her concern. “What is your issue?”
Abraham nodded a greeting to Mateo, who stepped to behind her shoulder. She flashed with irritation that he was lurking close, like she needed protection. When he bumped his crotch against her, she relaxed into the awareness that he wanted her to hide the bulge in his jeans.
“Good morning to you, too, sis.”
“You don’t even have a shift today.”
“Thanks. I forgot how to read the schedule.”
“Funny. Is something wrong?” Maybe her voice wavered some tiny amount, because Mateo ran a couple of fingers down her spine.
Abraham cleared his throat. “I’m giving you a heads-up. So you can get ready. Mrs. Vallejo is stopping by in an hour.”
She used to think, when they were little, that when she turned her eyes into fierce slits, they’d aim perfect laser darts at her unsuspecting and helpless brothers. It hadn’t yet felled either of them, but Abraham did, at least, rock backwards.
“Why is Mrs. Vallejo coming by?” Mrs. V was their landlady, and from day one of their negotiations, she’d done business via email. Abraham was the one who dealt with the lease, not that they didn’t all have access if they needed it. Alicia’s own interactions with her were enough to show that the woman was the least spontaneous person she’d ever met. “And when did she tell you about it?”
Abraham flushed some, the snake. “I’ll fill you in over a coffee?”
“You sure as hell will. Did you tell Austin?”
He nodded. “He’s on his way.” And with that, he slithered his sneaky way into the shop, leaving her alone with a thousand questions.
And Mateo.
Broad palms cupped her shoulders, and she let herself sag. Let herself lean her back against his strong chest. Just for a minute, though. She had work to do.
Turning to face him, she smiled a perfectly calm smile. “Okay, good thing we couldn’t have sex this morning after all.”
Something not-best-pleased crossed his face, but she didn’t have time to placate his ego.
She noticed the baggie tucked haphazardly next to his now-controlled bulge. She snagged it and shook it brisk and cheerful, to signal she was ready for him to head out. “What am I holding here?”
After a beat, he answered, “Cardamom, with a touch of cinnamon and ginger. Grated it when I was making the brioche this morning. Add a rounded half-teaspoon per cup for Israeli coffee. Thought you’d like it.”
It smelled amazing. Distilled essence of his baking. The kind of thing to lift her spirits, to center her, if she found she needed such a thing from him. Alicia closed her hand around the resealed bag. “I’ll add it to the specials, thanks.”
Mateo’s narrowed eyes were no good at making lasers. He lacked her killer instinct. “It’s not for your customers, A. It’s for you. If you want me to provide custom spice blends for your business, add them to the order form.”
It would be juvenile to glare right back at him, and Alicia was not a juvenile. She was not as good at on-the-spot retorts as she’d like, but she was adult enough to let him be the one to end their stare-down.
He turned away to finish loading up the van, and much as she needed to dash upstairs for a shower and the uncomfortable armor of professional clothing, she waited. Standing there unable to think up a single good reply. Watching until he drove off into the brightening day without a word of farewell.
A half-mile up the beach road, Mateo pulled over to stare at the misty surf and calm the hell down. Hair-trigger temper but never a grudge, that was his reputation. Well-enough earned, he’d admit, but not the whole story.
Seemed like no one ever wanted to get at the whole story.
The tide was on the way in, and he made out a couple clumps of surfers, zipping into wet suits and idly chatting on the sand. They’d start their mornings on the waves, and like as not end up at Pier Three Coffee afterward, boards propped in the racks, gathered around picnic tables on the deck with coffee and his protein-rich baked goods, watching their fellows and fueling up for the day ahead.
And more power to them. He grabbed his tablet and updated the delivery to Pier Three, double-checked his next stops. A few more deliveries, and it would be his lunch break. He could, as he sometimes did, swing back by Pier Three and let Alicia fix him a drink while he ate. But she would be stressing about the landlady, or snarking about his busy day, or subjecting him to her cordiality.
It wasn’t secret, their … relationship? Arrangement? He knew she was likely to classify it differently to him. Or she would be, if she ever did anything but evade both his hints and his direct questions, and be definitive. For months he’d taken her lead, and as a result everyone knew they hooked up, but no one treated them like a couple. He could walk right up to her in the middle of Pier Three or out someplace with friends, and get a nod of hello. But never a hug, never a kiss. No one in the world could spy them in passing and guess they were more than friends. They’d have zero clue how he felt about her. And since she wasn’t interested in hearing it from him, that left Mateo as his own secret-keeper.
Allowing himself another few seconds of Pacific breeze, he filled his lungs with enough ocean brine to temporarily stave off the omnipresent yeast-and-spice scents of the van.
Of his life.
He shifted into gear and went about his business. His family’s business. Alicia sometimes talked like that gave them common ground, the family business thing. She never saw the differences. That she and her brothers were grown and through university before choosing to dovetail their career paths in order to work together. That they’d united with shared goals, and picked something that catered to their interests, combined their strengths, and allowed them to work towards a vision they built together. That they’d asked each other if the coffee shop was what they wanted.
He didn’t begrudge them their unity. It wasn’t part of his reputation, after all, to hold grudges. And Mateo, with really just the one exception, lived up to expectations. So Alicia had a tight-knit bond with her brothers; so they worked well towards mutually agreed upon goals. So they listened to each other.
Living without all that sucked a bit. But the tradeoff was, in being all that was expected of him as the ‘Family’ part of ‘James Family Bakers,’ he gave the extended family no room to react against the truth of the rest of him.
It wasn’t that Alicia Wells didn’t love the smell, too. She’d morphed into a coffee snob in college, and converted both her brothers while she was at it. Their shared addiction to a quality caffeine fix helped her brothers fall in with her plan to use their grandparents’ inheritance to open a progressive independent coffee shop in their not-so-little-anymore town of Surfside. Just close enough to the Bay Area to enjoy the perks of Northern Californian life, and full enough of tourists and college students to funnel a steady stream of customers their way.
They’d succeeded, so far, navigating more than their share of emotional and logistical obstacles. As long as they spent most of their waking hours working on it.
But she made sure, in the narrow slice of time between waking and working, to allow herself a moment to lean against the building and stare out towards the Pacific Ocean. Although it was past sunrise, the fog in front of her and the mountains behind her obscured the incoming tide. She didn’t need to see the waves to be captured by them. She breathed in deep, savoring the salt air. A lesson she learned after her first few days living above the coffee shop: seize every chance to take in scents that weren’t ground beans. All too soon, she would be enveloped by everything about Pier Three. Alicia loved the place, had spent three years fighting like a mythic boss for the place, but needed to keep a sliver of herself separate from it.
And separate from her siblings. When they’d converted the old bait shop to a cafe, they’d also refurbished the apartment perched in its cupola. Her rent was low, with the trade-off that she was the partner to open up Pier Three Coffee each morning.
Always an early riser, it was no burden. And it fulfilled her need for privacy; Abraham and Austin still shared a two-bedroom in the apartment complex their parents owned, up near campus. She’d been living above the cafe long enough now to almost sleepwalk through her opening routine: unlock the employee entrance, turn on lights, check nothing had gone wrong overnight with the plumbing or fridges or anything, put the day’s special blend in the grinder. Stretch and let the promise of her first macchiato bring her body alive.
Loiter in the doorway.
Meet the bakery van.
Check to see if Mateo was driving.
He didn’t always. Mateo and his parents owned James Family Bakers, and sometimes events in their storefront meant he delegated the morning delivery run. Around seventy-four percent of the time—Alicia sometimes did math in her head for fun; it wasn’t obsessive of her to know the statistic—Mateo was the one whose broad shoulders towered over the steering wheel as he nosed the van into the small parking area at the base of her staircase. Mateo's bare arms unlatching and hauling down the two-wheel dolly. Mateo's back flexing as he stacked up trays of scones and muffins and stuffed breads and paleo seed cakes, all ready to tempt the customers of Pier Three.
“Hey, A.”
“M.”
He did the thing with his cheek. The little flex that hinted he wasn’t as laid back as his tone suggested. “Anyone else around?”
“Nope.”
“Huh.”
She waited. Not a hardship, the waiting. The van almost radiated yeasty warmth and sweet spices through the open doors. She drifted closer. “Busy morning?”
He shrugged. “Nothing unusual.”
“Smells like a cardamon brioche day.” Alicia leaned into the van to better capture the enticing odors that always evoked Mateo for her. In a regular van, the area would hold passenger seats, but for the bakery, a rack of deep shelves were bolted in where the third row of seats would be, and storage for the dolly and some supplies took the place of second-row seats. He slammed the van’s rear door and wheeled the laden dolly through the shop’s door. She followed.
In an effort to not ogle his ass while he unloaded his buns onto her shelves, she turned to starting up the day’s first urn of drip coffee and updating the specials board. He emerged from the kitchen as she stowed the white board markers under the counter. “Got time for a coffee?”
Mateo shook his head. She felt ridiculous for noticing how his forearm flexed as he drew the dolly to a halt at the back door. But he extended that forearm her way, and the buzzing under her skin abated as they made contact. A few side-by-side steps, and she hitched herself into the van’s interior while he slid the empty bakery trays into place.
She’d never set out to be so familiar with his routines. It felt habit-forming in the worst way. Too addictive and too everyday and too centered on him instead of her. None of that was on her fuck-buddy checklist.
In the pro column, though, Mateo turned her on. Each of his movements, no matter that he was just doing his job, felt like a performance for her. The stretch of his muscles under his t-shirt, the silent-but-steady gauging of her pleasure, the way he flashed his eyes her direction while she arranged herself in his space. The direct, unambiguous way he approached her and gave her a look she could read no matter how diffuse the sun’s early morning light in their enclosed corner of the world.
As she grabbed the overhead straps and pulled herself to her knees on the floor of the van, Mateo filled the inches between them so they were eye-to-eye, breath-to-breath. “Impatient today?”
She shrugged, as much as she could while half-dangling. “Weird dream about my grandmother. Thought I could clear the mental air with something more cheerful, you know?”
The man spent a great deal of time chopping ingredients, kneading and forming doughs, reaching into hot ovens with little regard for burns. Made zero sense, how he could smooth his much-abused fingers so soft over her brow and make her relax. He leaned into her, sent one hand skimming over the crown of her head and down her spine, so they ended up chest-to-chest.
She kissed him. He opened to her, tugging until they leaned together, his warmth as comfortable and welcome as that of the fresh-baked loaves beside them. Sometimes she wondered, away from these stolen dawn moments at the employee door, if his kisses, his touches, would enfold her the same way elsewhere. If they were in his apartment in the foothills. If she let him spend the night in her bed. If they came together anywhere besides his van, or the shadows of the parking lot, or quickly, when there was time, up in her room.
Enough ridiculous speculation. She dropped a hand down to his ass, stroked the familiar hard curve, tucked her fingers under his waistband.
His cock responded, but he broke the kiss. “Can’t today.”
“Thought you weren’t busy.”
“Yeah, no.” Mateo's hands were no more in agreement with this plan to skip morning sex than was the rest of his body. She arched as he palmed up the sides of her flannel shirt. They both groaned when her nipples tightened between them. His voice was as rough as his calloused palms. “Nothing unusual, except volume. Got to stick on schedule.”
“Or be a few minutes late but ready to whistle while you work,” she suggested, rocking her belly against his erection. She was balanced on the very edge of the van’s threshold; if not for the blanket pad he always tossed right where she could rest on it, her knees would ache. But in his own not-talkative way, Mateo paid attention to things like that. Her comfort. Her needs. Her boundaries about how far he could intrude into her life.
Which—unfortunately for her libido—didn’t put him at her beck and call. “No can do,” he said, drawing back an inch that felt like a foot.
She dropped back to sitting. Reached for the sandals she’d slipped off during the kiss. “Well, damn.”
“Damn indeed. Would so love to be fucking you right now.”
She didn’t need to say the feeling was mutual. He knew.
“I have something for you, though.”
“Oh?” She glanced down, but his hand was only near his crotch so he could draw a baggie out of his front pocket. Alas.
“Not that.”
“Spoil sport.”
He snorted. “Spoiling my own fun, too, you know. Anyhow, here.”
A light thud on the back of the van put them both on alert, turning outward.
“Hands off my sister, please,” Abraham called from just out of sight.
She rolled her eyes but stepped clear of the van and smoothed down her shirt. It wasn’t a secret that she and Mateo hooked up some mornings, and if her big brother couldn’t deal with the idea of her having sex, that was his own issue. Still, she wasn’t used to him showing up so early, and the irritation in her voice masked her concern. “What is your issue?”
Abraham nodded a greeting to Mateo, who stepped to behind her shoulder. She flashed with irritation that he was lurking close, like she needed protection. When he bumped his crotch against her, she relaxed into the awareness that he wanted her to hide the bulge in his jeans.
“Good morning to you, too, sis.”
“You don’t even have a shift today.”
“Thanks. I forgot how to read the schedule.”
“Funny. Is something wrong?” Maybe her voice wavered some tiny amount, because Mateo ran a couple of fingers down her spine.
Abraham cleared his throat. “I’m giving you a heads-up. So you can get ready. Mrs. Vallejo is stopping by in an hour.”
She used to think, when they were little, that when she turned her eyes into fierce slits, they’d aim perfect laser darts at her unsuspecting and helpless brothers. It hadn’t yet felled either of them, but Abraham did, at least, rock backwards.
“Why is Mrs. Vallejo coming by?” Mrs. V was their landlady, and from day one of their negotiations, she’d done business via email. Abraham was the one who dealt with the lease, not that they didn’t all have access if they needed it. Alicia’s own interactions with her were enough to show that the woman was the least spontaneous person she’d ever met. “And when did she tell you about it?”
Abraham flushed some, the snake. “I’ll fill you in over a coffee?”
“You sure as hell will. Did you tell Austin?”
He nodded. “He’s on his way.” And with that, he slithered his sneaky way into the shop, leaving her alone with a thousand questions.
And Mateo.
Broad palms cupped her shoulders, and she let herself sag. Let herself lean her back against his strong chest. Just for a minute, though. She had work to do.
Turning to face him, she smiled a perfectly calm smile. “Okay, good thing we couldn’t have sex this morning after all.”
Something not-best-pleased crossed his face, but she didn’t have time to placate his ego.
She noticed the baggie tucked haphazardly next to his now-controlled bulge. She snagged it and shook it brisk and cheerful, to signal she was ready for him to head out. “What am I holding here?”
After a beat, he answered, “Cardamom, with a touch of cinnamon and ginger. Grated it when I was making the brioche this morning. Add a rounded half-teaspoon per cup for Israeli coffee. Thought you’d like it.”
It smelled amazing. Distilled essence of his baking. The kind of thing to lift her spirits, to center her, if she found she needed such a thing from him. Alicia closed her hand around the resealed bag. “I’ll add it to the specials, thanks.”
Mateo’s narrowed eyes were no good at making lasers. He lacked her killer instinct. “It’s not for your customers, A. It’s for you. If you want me to provide custom spice blends for your business, add them to the order form.”
It would be juvenile to glare right back at him, and Alicia was not a juvenile. She was not as good at on-the-spot retorts as she’d like, but she was adult enough to let him be the one to end their stare-down.
He turned away to finish loading up the van, and much as she needed to dash upstairs for a shower and the uncomfortable armor of professional clothing, she waited. Standing there unable to think up a single good reply. Watching until he drove off into the brightening day without a word of farewell.
A half-mile up the beach road, Mateo pulled over to stare at the misty surf and calm the hell down. Hair-trigger temper but never a grudge, that was his reputation. Well-enough earned, he’d admit, but not the whole story.
Seemed like no one ever wanted to get at the whole story.
The tide was on the way in, and he made out a couple clumps of surfers, zipping into wet suits and idly chatting on the sand. They’d start their mornings on the waves, and like as not end up at Pier Three Coffee afterward, boards propped in the racks, gathered around picnic tables on the deck with coffee and his protein-rich baked goods, watching their fellows and fueling up for the day ahead.
And more power to them. He grabbed his tablet and updated the delivery to Pier Three, double-checked his next stops. A few more deliveries, and it would be his lunch break. He could, as he sometimes did, swing back by Pier Three and let Alicia fix him a drink while he ate. But she would be stressing about the landlady, or snarking about his busy day, or subjecting him to her cordiality.
It wasn’t secret, their … relationship? Arrangement? He knew she was likely to classify it differently to him. Or she would be, if she ever did anything but evade both his hints and his direct questions, and be definitive. For months he’d taken her lead, and as a result everyone knew they hooked up, but no one treated them like a couple. He could walk right up to her in the middle of Pier Three or out someplace with friends, and get a nod of hello. But never a hug, never a kiss. No one in the world could spy them in passing and guess they were more than friends. They’d have zero clue how he felt about her. And since she wasn’t interested in hearing it from him, that left Mateo as his own secret-keeper.
Allowing himself another few seconds of Pacific breeze, he filled his lungs with enough ocean brine to temporarily stave off the omnipresent yeast-and-spice scents of the van.
Of his life.
He shifted into gear and went about his business. His family’s business. Alicia sometimes talked like that gave them common ground, the family business thing. She never saw the differences. That she and her brothers were grown and through university before choosing to dovetail their career paths in order to work together. That they’d united with shared goals, and picked something that catered to their interests, combined their strengths, and allowed them to work towards a vision they built together. That they’d asked each other if the coffee shop was what they wanted.
He didn’t begrudge them their unity. It wasn’t part of his reputation, after all, to hold grudges. And Mateo, with really just the one exception, lived up to expectations. So Alicia had a tight-knit bond with her brothers; so they worked well towards mutually agreed upon goals. So they listened to each other.
Living without all that sucked a bit. But the tradeoff was, in being all that was expected of him as the ‘Family’ part of ‘James Family Bakers,’ he gave the extended family no room to react against the truth of the rest of him.