French Pressed by Cleo Coyle Read Free Book Online Page A

second, ready to tell her smartly that her love life was absolutely my business when it involved playing profane lyrics over the Village Blend’s sound system, but I zipped my lip.
    I was obviously still in mother hen mode after coming away from my daughter, and while it was true that Matt, Madame, and I all felt that our employees were part of the Village Blend “family,” Esther was right. She deserved her privacy, and, frankly, the last thing I wanted to do was drive away a well-trained employee. I was short-staffed as it was, and good technique didn’t emerge overnight in this business; it came with hours and hours of repetitive practice. (Top coffeehouses, ours included, required a barista to train at least three months before pulling even one espresso for a customer.)
    Despite her occasional crankiness, Esther really had blossomed as a barista. Her espressos were top-notch, and her latte art skills were nearly at the competitive level. And while I didn’t like her new boyfriend’s taste in music, Esther did seem much less depressed than usual; her jaded eyes were unusually bright, and her pale-as-a-vampire skin was actually flushing with anticipation.
    “Okay, you win. I’ll butt out,” I said, but couldn’t stop myself from adding, “Just…don’t get carried away too fast. Get to know him.”
    “Duh. Why do you think he’s here?”
    “Right,” I said. “Tell you what, since he’s waiting for you and everything, why don’t you just get going now?”
    “Really?” Esther checked her watch and pointed to the inventory on the counter. “What about restocking?”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll close.”
    Amazingly, Esther, queen of the jaded, actually grinned . “Thanks, boss!” she said. Minutes later, my love-struck barista and her new boyfriend were off—and so was the rap music.
    In blessed silence, I took off my pinstriped suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of my blouse, tied on my Village Blend apron, and began restocking. I cleaned the tables next, swept the floor, and emptied the garbage cans.
    I’d just finished counting the register drawer when I heard the bell over our front door ring. I cursed myself for not locking up after those last two customers wandered out. Looking up, however, I saw it wasn’t a customer. The man walking in was my boyfriend.

F OUR
    T HE tall, broad-shouldered police detective entered my coffeehouse like he always did, with the commanding authority of a seasoned New York cop. In one sober sweep, he scanned the room to take note of his surroundings, then his arctic-blue gaze came to rest on me and, ever so slightly, his expression melted.
    “Hi, Clare.”
    “Hi, Mike.”
    In a city that hardened everyone—from little old church ladies to pretty-in-pink sorority girls—cops were the hardest cases of all. Mike Quinn was no exception. A square-jawed New York native, he had a long, powerful physique, short, sandy-brown hair, a dry sense of humor, and a load of street smarts from his years working a uniformed beat.
    Like your typical poker-faced soldier of law enforcement, Mike didn’t give much away, but I’d been serving him double-tall lattes for well over a year now, and I knew how to read him.
    Today, for instance, had been a hard one for him. The shadows under his eyes told me he was coming in here with the weight of a long shift on his shoulders. And the tension in his rugged face told me he hadn’t accomplished what he’d set out to.
    “You closed?” Mike asked, his expression still stiff as he swept the empty room once more.
    “Depends,” I teased.
    “On what?”
    “On what you’re here for.”
    Mike strode across the wood-plank floor. He took his time stripping off his overcoat, a nicely tailored cinnamon-colored garment, which he’d finally exchanged for that battered old trench he wore in warmer weather. Then off came the beige sport coat, revealing a white dress shirt, slightly wrinkled by the leather straps of his shoulder holster. The butt of