Beautifully Broken (The Montebellos Book 6)

into a small stainless-steel jug, she set about grinding the beans before gently tamping down on the coffee.
“You have worked as a barista.” The statement was a completely toneless observation – his voice not showing interest, nor speculation, nor anything so ordinary as a conversational cue.
Nonetheless, it was a step up from, don’t bother me, stay out of my way, so she smiled and nodded. “When I was at uni, yeah. It’s kind of a great Aussie tradition – most of us have worked in a café at some point or another.” She locked the coffee bar into place and lined up a cup beneath, pressing the red switch and observing as the machine hummed to life, and after a tiny delay, a rich golden brown liquid began to pour from the basket, two dark streams of coffee joining together and pooling in one cup. She waited about twenty seconds then flicked the switch off, breathing in the delicious aroma before removing the cup and handing it to him.
He nodded by way of acknowledgement – she wondered if ‘thanks’ or ‘grazie’ were even in his vocabulary. Somehow, she doubted it.
Emptying the coffee grinds, she went through the motions again, aware of his eyes on her back the whole time, and wishing he’d go away while somehow hoping he’d remain. She refilled the basket with care, tamped down on it then slid it into place.
“I miss this, you know,” she said, conversationally, as the coffee began to stream into her own cup. She simultaneously lifted the jug towards the steam nozzle and tilted it at an angle as she rotated the switch, so that for a moment, conversation was made difficult by the noise of the milk’s heating. It swirled around and around in the jug and when the side felt too hot to hold, Isabella released the pressure, turning the nozzle off and banging the jug on the countertop.
“Miss what?”
The question seemed to be drawn from him against his will. She angled her face in his direction a little, but promptly looked away again at his expression. It was forbidding, to say the least. He had said he wasn’t nice, or kind – though the two were not mutually exclusive and of course had very different meanings. Well, she didn’t know if that was an accurate observation but she did know he wasn’t particularly friendly or polite, and she couldn’t quite fathom how to deal with such unashamed animosity.
“Making coffees. There’s something meditative about it. It’s satisfying to get to know a beautiful machine like this, and be able to coax the best from it. Rewarding to speak to customers as you make their drink, see them smile as they take their first sip.” She smiled naturally, memories of that brief time in her life warming her.
“How old are you?”
She angled her cup as she poured the milk in, marvelling at the way the two liquids swirled together to create a dramatic mix of gold and white on the top of her drink. “Twenty six,” she spoke as though his question wasn’t jarring, lifting the cup to her lips. “I’ll be twenty seven in January.” She wasn’t sure why she’d volunteered the information. Her birthday was, and always had been, her least favourite day of the year. She cleared her throat and looked to the windows – a view that had transfixed her all day.
“There is a television in the room down the hall,” he said. “It has American Netflix. Watch whatever you’d like.”
She wasn’t going to tell him she wasn’t a huge television watcher – it was an improvement that he was even offering her some form of entertainment. “Thanks, maybe later.”
He stared at her for a few moments, a beat too long, and then nodded. “Fine.” He spun on his heel but at the door, with his shoulders braced, tossed back into the room, “Thank you for the coffee.”
It was expressly what he’d asked her not to do, and she knew it, which is why a kaleidoscope of butterflies was beating through her body as she moved lightly down the corridor in search of Gabe.
She didn’t want to disturb him. But she really did need to get online and for that, she’d need her host to provide her with a WiFi password. As a peace offering, she’d brought the fruits of her cooking labours – well, some of them at least. The Cuccidati had turned out almost perfectly, the addition of the spice she’d bought at a market an excellent addition to the sweet biscuit – and a way to make it ‘her own’.
She moved past her bedroom and several other doors, aware of small noises that indicated he was in a room not far away. Nothing significant, the occasional clicking of keys on the keyboard, a rustle of fabric as he shifted in his seat, and a blade of light filtered into the hallway, beckoning her forward.
But oh, nervousness made her knees wobble a little, and she desperately wished he wasn’t so completely intimidating! It had been a long time since Isabella had been on the ‘back foot’ but this man just made her feel apprehensive and self-conscious in a way she couldn’t explain.
Just as she reached the door, she paused, sucking in a deep breath to steel her nerves, then poked her head around the corner.
“Hi.”
His surprise was obvious. He scowled as he looked towards her, obviously displeased by the intrusion. Nerves buffeted her insides.
“Cookie?”
“What?” It was little more than a growl. Crikey. She really should have rethought this. Maybe banged about a bit as she approached so he wasn’t caught so off guard by her arrival. Not that it would have made any difference – except given him a chance to lock the door, she thought with a wry grimace.
“A Cuccidati, in fact. Want one?”
His eyes dropped to the plate she held, with several still warm biscuits piled on top of it.
“What the hell for?”
She flinched at his language and tone, her skin paling. “It