The Barista's Guide to the Perfect Steam (Guided to Love, Book 2)

Jodi Bristol knows three things for certain: bad things happen to good people; college girls order the most complicated coffee drinks; and Price Joseph will never see her as anything other than the barista who makes his vanilla oat-milk lattes.

Price has spent his entire life being known for his looks instead of his brains, and has conveniently managed to avoid any real responsibilities outside of his job as a Talladega firefighter. He even stumbled into modeling for romance covers—a fact he’s kept to himself. Now that he wants to move higher up the ranks at the fire station, he realizes his carefree living might have cost him.

When an electrical fire forces Jodi into the bed-and-breakfast Price hasn’t even opened yet, their newfound chemistry is enough to scorch everything it touches. She’s crushed on him for years. He wants to be more than a pretty face. Can they break free from their self-imposed restraints and find happiness together?

A trickle of sweat makes its way down the center of my back as steam from the frother billows into my face. I step back, wipe my forehead with my arm, and keep moving. The early-March air that gusts in with every swing of the door isn’t anywhere close enough to cool me off.

I shake cinnamon onto Mr. Steele’s latte. He keeps telling me to call him Henry, but the man was my high school principal, so no way. I push the drink to him and glance around the shop. The line isn’t getting any shorter, which is good. Great, even. But it would be awesome if people could time their need for caffeine in a pattern that made my mornings a little less insane.

I’m grateful; don’t get me wrong. Of course I’m grateful. I’d have lost the shop way before now if these customers weren’t lining up for their daily dose.

Actually, that’s the name of my shop: Daily Dose. I’ve owned it since I was twenty-two, a whole five years. You know that saying ignorance is bliss? Yeah, that was me. Blissfully ignorant, thinking how hard can it be to run a coffee shop?

Ha.

It’s hard.

Suck the marrow from your bones hard. But deciding to buy this place is the only time I’ve done anything entirely for myself, so I don’t mind the work.

I hand Mr. Steele his coffee with a smile. He takes the cup and lifts it in answer.

“Love of my life, sweetness and sunshine, your behind is so glorious but could you please move.” Darius growls that last part at me.

I giggle and shimmy my glorious behind, as Darius so eloquently puts it, out of the way. He’s my only full-time employee and he swears I pay him a pittance, but I like to remind him that his goal is to be a published fantasy author by age twenty-five, not a barista, and that usually shuts him up. For about five seconds. The man was born to talk.

“New flare?” I ask.

He flashes me a pleased grin and points to the new pin on his apron, TV hostess style. It’s a Pride flag, joining a collection of buttons and pins big enough to make your head spin. “Gotta support my people,” he says and winks.

We move around each other, a dance borne from years of barista choreography, and keep the line moving.

And then.

Sweet mother of all that is holy.

The Joseph Brothers walk in.

Two firemen and a paramedic walk into a coffee shop.

It’s as if the movie of my life has gone into slow-mo as three fine-as-hell walls of navy-uniformed muscled goodness walk in, joking and laughing with each other. There’s Aaron the paramedic, the blond baby of the bunch who’s engaged to Devon and is smiling like he’s stupid in love. But he actually is in love, so he doesn’t make me want to barf. Then there’s Will Joseph, the oldest and the darkest and the beefiest, who always looks like he’s disappointed with the world and gives off this Very Stern vibe.

But then.

Then there’s the middle brother. Price. Melter of panties and primary provider of my alone-time fantasies. His dark blond hair flops deliciously over his forehead and he sports a perfectly-maintained beard that’s thick but still manages to look like it’d be soft if he graced you with a kiss.

I have crushed on this man since I was twelve. Is it healthy? Probably not.

Do I place the blame for my persistent virginity at his likely pedicured feet? Damn straight I do.