The love of a badboy

Chapter Nine

Sunlight streamed through the large front windows of the café, casting golden hues across the polished countertops and illuminating the rising steam from freshly brewed coffee.

The start of a new day.

And what better way to celebrate it than with a hot cup of rich, velvety coffee?

At least, that was what Jamie Carter thought.

The scent of roasted beans filled the air as customers streamed in, eager for their morning fix—lattes, espressos, fresh pastries—fuel for the long workday ahead. The rhythmic clatter of ceramic mugs and the low hum of conversation created a symphony of routine, one Jamie had come to love.

Mornings were her favorite part of the job.

There was something deeply satisfying about watching people step into her café, groggy and half-asleep, only to leave energized, a little less burdened by the weight of the day ahead. She played a small role in their morning rituals, setting the tone before they disappeared into the grind of their lives.

From early-morning joggers still flushed from their runs to employees already late for work, rushing in with wild hair and sleep-heavy eyes, clutching their cups like lifelines.

Then, there were the regulars—the ones Jamie had come to know, like clockwork.

Cynthia, her next-door neighbor, always ordered a caramel macchiato with two pumps of espresso, claiming it was the only thing keeping her from falling asleep mid-cycle at spin class.

Daniel, the steel mill worker, never strayed from his usual—a black coffee, no sugar, no cream. He'd give her a quick nod, grumble about the weather, then be out the door in under three minutes.

Jamie had grown attached to the routine of seeing them, of seeing everyone.

There was a quiet comfort in it—the predictability, the stability. It was something she had never experienced in New York, where life had been nothing but chaos and broken promises. She never felt like she belonged there. The fast-paced life was never for her. She always imagined living in a small town where you knew everyone and everyone knew you. Where you could always count on your neighbor for a bowl of sugar in the middle of the night, or who would be willing to help get power back for you in the middle of a storm.

Here, she was part of something steady.

Something real.

Jamie Carter felt like she belonged here.

By eleven, the morning rush had dwindled, leaving behind the soothing quiet Jamie had come to expect. Most days followed this pattern—an early flood of customers eager for their caffeine fix, followed by a lull that allowed her and her small staff to catch their breath.

Today was no exception.

While her employees grabbed a quick bite in the back, Jamie moved through the shop, wiping down tables, restocking sugar packets, and refilling the mini-milk containers. She exhaled slowly, savoring the brief moment of stillness.

The café wasn't retrofitted for a stove or grill yet, something she was eager to change once she found a cook. That task, however, was proving harder than expected. For now, the shop only sold pastries—brought in fresh every morning from a bakery in the next town. And while they were a hit, Jamie knew the café had more potential.

She sank into one of the empty chairs, stretching out her legs and letting her head fall back for just a second—just long enough for the bell over the door to chime.

Jamie straightened immediately, pushing to her feet. A customer was a customer, and she was ready to serve. But the moment she turned toward the door, her stomach twisted in recognition.

Of course.

Ethan Cross.

He stood just inside the doorway, fingers still hovering over the handle, that damn smirk plastered across his face like he knew exactly what kind of reaction he pulled from her.

"Hey, sweetheart."

Jamie exhaled sharply. "I do have a name, you know."

Ethan's smirk deepened. "Jamie, Jamie, Jamie." He dragged it out like he was tasting the syllables. Then he shook his head. "Nope. Doesn't have the same ring to it."

Jamie hated that he was right.

There was something about the way he said sweetheart—a drawl laced with something dark, something teasing—that made her stomach do an infuriating little flip.

She wasn't sure if it was because she loathed hearing him say it or because she was getting too damn used to it.

For a second, she just stood there, studying him.

Today, he was dressed in light-washed jeans, ripped at the knees, and a navy blue cut-off t-shirt that clung to his broad chest in all the right ways. His signature leather belt, embossed with the initials S.V., gleamed under the overhead lights. Steel Vipers. His infamous motorcycle club.

His leather jacket was slung over one shoulder, hanging effortlessly like it belonged there. And those boots—polished cowboy boots that somehow made him look even more rugged—clicked lightly against the tiled floor as he took a step forward.

Jamie realized, belatedly, that she had been staring.

A soft clear of a throat snapped her out of it, heat creeping up her neck as she spun toward the counter and busied herself with the coffee machine.

"Black coffee," Ethan ordered lazily. "No sugar. Just a dash of cinnamon."

Jamie glanced over her shoulder, quirking a brow.

That was exactly how she drank hers.

Filing that information away, she handed him the freshly brewed cup, watching as he inspected it like she might have poisoned it. He lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply before taking the first sip.

The groan that left his lips sent a jolt of warmth through Jamie's stomach.

God help her.

She gripped the edge of the counter just to keep herself from reacting.

Ethan opened his eyes slowly, leveling her with an amused look.

"So, Jamie," he started, voice dripping with ease, "since we're neighbors and all, I figured I'd make a habit of getting to know you." He leaned against the counter like he had all the time in the world. "So tell me something—who is Jamie Carter?"

Jamie huffed. "First of all, I'm not stupid. I know exactly what you're doing."

He smirked. "Oh yeah? And what's that?"

"Trying to get under my skin." She crossed her arms. "And secondly, we aren't friends. So you don't need to pretend."

Ethan chuckled, slow and deep, before taking another sip of his coffee. "Who says I'm pretending?"

Jamie rolled her eyes. "Just sit in peace and drink your damn coffee, Cross."

She turned on her heel before he could get another word in, heading toward the back to grind fresh beans for the afternoon rush.

And yet, even as she disappeared into the storeroom, she could still feel his gaze following her.

Watching.

Waiting.

Jamie exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her racing heart.

Trouble had a name.

And it was Ethan Cross.

Trouble stayed with her. Throughout the afternoon shift, his buddies had come after, ordering coffee and making far too much noise that Jamie wanted.

However, they were paying customers and compared to all the movies she'd seen about motorcycle clubs, they weren't as bad as them.

Ethan had been on Jamie's mind all day—like a song she couldn't get out of her head. She tried to focus on her work, but her eyes kept drifting across the café to where he sat, casually leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone like he wasn't the literal embodiment of every fantasy she'd had in the past year.

Every few minutes, she'd sneak a glance, hoping no one would notice.

Unfortunately, Andre did.

"What is up with you?" he asked, wiping down the espresso machine. "You've been staring over there like you want to walk across the room and rip his clothes off."

Jamie's mouth twitched with amusement as she bit down a grin, glancing back at Ethan. Andre wasn't wrong.

God, she did want to rip his clothes off—just to feel his abs under her palms, to trace the ridges of his muscles, to finally find out if the daydreams matched reality. It was insane how fast her feelings had grown. She barely knew the man, and yet, he had burrowed his way under her skin like he belonged there.

It wasn't just about his body, though that certainly didn't hurt. It was the way he carried himself. Calm. Confident. Solid. Like she could lean on him and he wouldn't flinch.

It was dangerous, the kind of longing that could make a woman foolish.

"I might have a tiny crush on him," she finally confessed under her breath.

Andre, who'd been organizing mugs, froze. "I'm sorry—what?"

He dropped the towel and practically dragged her into the back hallway. "Say that again. Slowly. And louder. Because for a second, you sounded like a teenage girl with a locker poster."

Jamie chuckled, nudging his shoulder. "Don't make me regret telling you."

Andre narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. "Spill. I'm not letting you out of here until you do."

She sighed, her tone playful but honest. "I know it's crazy, but lately, he's just…always on my mind. Last night he stopped by."

"Wait, what? He came over last night?" Andre's voice pitched up.

"Relax," she said, laughing. "It wasn't anything like that. He ran out of sugar and came over to ask if I had any."

Andre raised a skeptical brow. "Sugar? That's what we're calling it now?"

Jamie gave him a mock glare. "Actual sugar, you perv. The kind you put in coffee. Nothing happened—it was friendly."

"Friendly?" he echoed with a knowing smirk. "Right. Totally believable. Just so you know, that man has danger written all over him. You can't tell me you haven't seen it."

"I do," Jamie admitted softly.

"Every bit of him is a red flag tied up in motorcycle leather and tattoos. And I don't plan to do anything about it."

Andre tilted his head. "You don't?"

"I can't," she said. "I have Lily. I have a business. I don't have room for complications—especially ones that come with dimples and abs and the kind of jawline that should be illegal."

Andre laughed, shaking his head. "You're doomed."

"I know." She sighed dramatically. "But it's just a crush. I'll get over it."

But even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed herself.

Because the truth was—her body didn't just want Ethan. It ached for him.