Accidentally Amy

Chapter One

Izzy

"Amy?"

I sighed impatiently and watched as the barista yelled out the name (not mine), then set down the cup. I could see it was a Venti pumpkin spice latte, the same drink I'd ordered, and I found myself wildly jealous of PSL Amy, whoever she might be.

Because I wanted-no, needed-to get my drink and get the hell out of there.

Please yell Izzy next. Please yell Izzy next.

If I were a responsible adult, I would've seen the long line at Starbucks and opted not to get a coffee that morning. But it was the first day of the PSL-arrival day-so my annual vice refused to be denied, regardless of the fact that I was starting a new job in T minus thirty minutes.

Yes, I was taking quite the moronic risk.

My 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, a free cafeteria, and a 4:00 p.m. daily happy hour; Ellis was renowned for being a great place to work.

Which meant that I was definitely going to punch myself in the face if my lack of self-discipline made me late on the very first day.

"Amy?" The barista said it again, and I looked around the busy coffee shop. There was a group of women at a big table on the other side of the café, all dressed in athletic clothes and looking like barre fitness models; perhaps one of them was Amy.

I felt like PSL Amy was quickly becoming my nemesis.

Come get your coffee, Amy, you lucky son of a bitch.

I glanced down at my watch and stifled a groan. Shit, shit, shit. If they didn't call my 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-I was going to have to kiss that overpriced drink goodbye and abort the mission.

"Amy!" The barista said it again, sounding agitated this time, and before I had time to think, I heard myself mutter-

"I'm Amy."

And . . . I reached out and grabbed the cup.

I knew it was wrong, I really did, but I needed to go and I needed that drink and I'd already paid, so it wasn't really stealing, right? And obviously Amy was in no hurry whatsoever. She'd probably changed her mind and had already left the building. Surely that was a possibility.

Right?

I put my palm over the name Amy, closed my fingers around the cup, and turned, ready to sprint out of the shop before some Starbucks security officer tackled me to the ground for my egregious PSL thievery, or Amy herself appeared before me.

But then I rammed right into a wall.

"Gah!" Oh, my God. It wasn't a wall at all, but a rock-hard chest, encased in a starched white dress shirt and a charcoal tie. I stared in horror as my cup crushed on impact, the lid popped off, and hot pumpkin coffee splurted all over the chest. "I'm so sorry!"

I looked up and-whoa.

You know how in movies everything can freeze when a character sees the Big Thing? Well, that was happening to me as I made eye contact with Mr. Chest. He was looking down at me 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 perfectly 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 gorgeous bone structure and perfectly shaped mouth.

He was like Roy Kent's taller American brother or something, and I didn't think I was physically capable of closing my mouth at that moment.

Until I felt the hot coffee seeping into my own shirt.

That made the moment unfreeze itself. I muttered another charming, "Gahhhh," tossed my crumpled cup (RIP PSL) into the trash can, and grabbed a stack of napkins from the end of the counter.

"I can't believe I ran right into you," I babbled, rubbing the clump of napkins over his shirt with one hand while I dabbed at my own (thank God it was black) with the other. I 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. I glanced up, and he was giving me a half smile, like he was entertained by the impromptu pectoral rubdown, and something about that look hit me square in the gut. He said, "I hated this shirt anyway."

I dropped my hands and said, "I did, too, but I didn't know how to tell you. Hence the PSL."

He gave a little laugh. "Subtle, but effective."

I set the napkins on the bar top beside us and bit down on my lower lip to stop myself from grinning. Because I should feel bad about scalding the man, right? Smiling is not the appropriate reaction here, correct? I cleared my throat and said, "I really am sorry. I'd be happy to get it dry-cleaned 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 I could feel in my 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.

I shrugged. "I wasn't trying, per se, but I am a curious girl. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't checking for a third nipple."

He didn't say anything for a minute, still sort of smiling but now with a tiny wrinkle between his brows, and I knew my cheeks were turning red. Did you really just say third nipple, you dumbass? Sometimes I wondered why it was so difficult for me to just keep my mouth shut.

He cleared his throat and said, "I promise there isn't one, not that there's anything wrong with having three."

I did grin then. "I mean, the more the merrier, right?"

His mouth split into a slow, wide smile that was oddly powerful. It was almost like I felt it pass over me, like hot summer sun warming cool skin. "Are we sure that applies here?"

"Definitely not, but I couldn't let a moment pass without speaking," I said.

"I can see that about you."

"Hey," I said with a dose of fake offense, "just because I scalded your chest doesn't mean you can insult me."

"I feel like it actually does mean that."

"Fair." I nodded in agreement and said, "I'll even give you one more. Go."

"This seems like a trap."

"Do it," I said, crossing my arms and wondering if he felt it, too, this delicious bit of chemistry. "Go. Slam me, bro."

His eyes crinkled at the edges when he looked at me, like he was amused by the fact that someone would dare to call him bro, and he said, "Fine. I'm shocked you can see out of those glasses-they're very dirty."

"Oh, my God," I said around a laugh, "you actually insulted me."

"You told me to," he said, then he gestured with his hand-very big, not that I noticed-for me to give him my glasses.

"No." I knew my eyebrows were all screwed together as I shook my head. "No. Seriously?"

"Come on."

"Okay," I relented, laughing at the ridiculousness as I removed my glasses and handed them to the guy. "Here you go."

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket-very nice suit, by the way-and pulled out a microfiber cloth. He looked down at my glasses (which were always dirty) as he buffed the lenses, and I wondered what in God's name was actually happening.

Was this GQ model seriously cleaning the filth off my spectacles? I said, "They're usually not-"

"Yes, I think they probably are," he teased, without looking up.

"Yeah, they usually are," I agreed as he handed them back. I slid them up the bridge of my nose, tilted my head, and said, "Oh, wow, you're a man."

For a split second he blessed me with a grin that acknowledged my stupid joke, but then . . . then. The grin was gone, and all that was left behind was this wildly potent, one-hundred-proof, undiluted expression of interest as he gave me full-on eye contact. With a jaw flex. The moment held, and I felt like I was being physically pulled closer to the guy. The entire world went quiet as an invisible string tugged me toward him.

"Blake!"

Both our heads whipped toward the barista, and I might've audibly gasped at the interruption, but I couldn't be sure.

"Um, that's me," he said, his eyes narrowing on me for a split second-like he was thinking something about me-before he pointed and leaned forward to reach around me for his cup. The faint smell of cologne hit me as he grabbed his coffee, a subtle scent that was crisp and somehow woodsy, and I had the inexplicable urge to nuzzle his throat.

Get it together, dipshit. Be cool.

He leaned down so I could hear him over the noise of the crowded coffee shop, and his deep voice found my ear with, "Do you want to grab a table-"

"Oh, no-what time is it?" The word table jolted me into real life and damn it, I was screwing up. Damn it, damn it, damn it. He might've said the time, I don't know, but I was too busy pulling my phone out of my pocket to hear him. I looked at the display, panic surging through me, and I muttered, "Oh, my God, I'm late, I have to go."

He was still watching me with that look on his face as I fished my keys out of my pocket, and I knew I needed to say something before sprinting to my car like a lunatic.

"I come here every morning around seven forty-five, so if you want to be reimbursed for the dry cleaning or say hello and eat a cake pop or, um, anything else," I rambled, "I'll be here tomorrow."

"Okay-"

"Gotta run-nice meeting you!" I bolted for the exit, literally jogging around tables in my three-inch patent leather pumps. And as I pulled open the door, I heard that butterfly-inducing voice say from behind me-

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then, Amy."

Amy?

Oh, no.

Chapter Two

Izzy

I hitched the tote bag over my shoulder and headed for the elevators, feeling downright giddy over the way my first day was going so far. I'd spent all morning with my team, shadowing the HR generalist whose position I was filling, and it'd been-no joke-fun.

Seriously.

Everyone in the department seemed to get along, the work appeared to be challenging but not too stressful, and I actually had an (incredibly small) office with my name on the door.

And yes, I had already taken multiple photos.

In addition to that little nugget of fantasticality, Incite Fitness-the city's hottest health club-was located on the twelfth floor of the building next door, and Ellis employees were able to use it for free. For. Free. So I'd just run three miles on the treadmill, showered, and brushed my teeth, which left me more than ready for part two of my amazing day.

As I walked down the hall, the elevator doors started to close.

"Wait!" I yelled, just in case someone was listening and wanted to be nice. I expected nothing, so when a hand reached out and stopped the doors, I very nearly squealed with delight.

Could the day get any better?

"Thank you," I sang as I ran over and hopped into the elevator.

"No problem," the person inside said. "What fl-"

"Oh. My. God." I stared at the guy and couldn't believe my eyes. It was Mr. Chest from Starbucks. In my elevator. I think my mouth was once again hanging open in his presence as I breathlessly managed to form the words "It's you."

He was still wearing his fancy suit, but the tips of his hair were wet, like he'd just showered, and I could smell his soap. He looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but then his mouth turned up into one of those toe-curling, genuinely happy smiles that always bumped an exceptionally handsome man right up to a work of art. He said in that ridiculously deep voice, "Talk about your small world."

The elevator doors slid closed, and he gestured with his thumb to the floor buttons.

"Oh. Yeah. Lobby, please," I said, even though I was so shocked I could barely remember how to language. All morning, I'd been forcing myself not to think about Mr. Chest, because not only did I need to focus on the new job, but also there was no way in hell a Starbucks meet-cute would ever pan out into something real.

But now, here he was.

Dun-dun-duuuun.

"So, um," he said. "Do you work around here, or do you belong to this gym?"

"I was working out because-" I started, but then he nodded and cut me off.

"Okay, I don't normally do this sort of thing, but someone's going to get on this elevator any minute now, so I have to talk fast."

His expression was purposeful and intense, but his mouth was relaxed, like he was enjoying our encounter. I watched the numbers light up on the display over the doors as we descended.

Eleven, ten, nine . . .

Please don't stop, please don't stop.

"I know we're strangers," he said, his eyes so focused on me that I fought the urge to fix my hair or fidget with my lip gloss. "But-"

Eight, seven, six . . .

Talk faster before someone gets on!

"I can't stop thinking about-"

Five, four, three . . .

I reached out and hit the emergency button behind him.

The elevator car jolted to a halt, which made Mr. Chest stop talking as I stumbled closer to him. Did I really just do that? I watched his eyes narrow a fraction, and a wrinkle appeared between his brows.