Prologue

prologue

TWO YEARS AGO

Liquid Burns Are No Joke

Would Regan Gallagher say working at a coffee shop was "her calling," so-to-speak? Not exactly. Was it what she wanted to do for the rest of her life? Definitely not.

But it happened to be something she was really fucking good at. Maybe it was the frenetic pace during rush hours, never dipping into a boring lull or letting Regan get too distracted. Maybe it was the freedom she was granted during the slower hours – especially now that she was an assistant manager – that allowed her to get hands-on with multiple aspects of the cafe, indulging her curious nature. Maybe it was simply the scent of caffeine that fueled her coffee-addicted can-do spirit.

Whatever it was, Regan had been working at Topped Off for five years, and she was something of a one-woman show at the moment.

Topped Off rarely experienced true emptiness – it was a 24-hour hipster shop in the heart of New York University's Manhattan campus, serving some quality grounds. They had a revolving door nearly constantly, with students holing up at tables and booths throughout the night. It was more likely to be busy than not.

Usually, though, Regan wasn't the only person working during finals week. In fact, as the person who made the schedule, she made it a point never to put anyone as the only barista manning the front of the store during this time.

Today, though, she was the ringleader and entertainment all-in-one, and she just might kill Rochelle and Pat for both calling out sick today. Regan was no dummy; she knew they'd gone out the night before and had gotten blasted. The "sickness" they were enduring today was undoubtedly alcohol-related.

"I deserve a medal for this," she said, swiping her arm over her forehead to brush away any strands that had escaped her ponytail in the three hours since she'd had time to redo her hair. "Gold, too, because I fucking killed that."

Really, she did. She'd just handled the never-ending morning line of stress-addled nerds single-handedly. After she prepared this drink, she was going to call Jacklyn out from the kitchen and have her cover so Regan could take her well-deserved fifteen-minute break.

The drink in question that she was prepping was… questionable. Even to her own palette.

Regan considered herself a rather daring coffee drinker – whatever batshit-sounding specialty orders came down from corporate, Regan tried them all herself. It was somewhat of a special activity here. When the monthly specials list was received at the beginning of every month, everyone would gather around to try them. In particular, as the main event, Regan would assemble a small size of every single special, then go down the line and try them all. Even the one that had both lemonade and pumpkin spice in it.

In Regan's humble opinion, the taste testers – or whoever the hell came up with the flavors at their northeast-based chain – had no fear. Occasionally, when they sent down the recipes for some of those wild flavor combinations, she wondered if they even had taste buds.

She gave the final pump of liquid sugar before finishing with the caramel drizzle over the top, unable to hold back her grimace. But she worked quickly because the girl who'd placed this order of a "steaming hot extra-large dark roast, two shots of espresso, four shots of chai, five pumps of liquid sugar, finished with caramel – keep them coming" had preemptively tipped Regan a hundred bucks, before she'd made herself at home in one of the back booths next to the windows, two hours ago.

Topped Off didn't typically provide table service, either, but when this woman had wordlessly flashed another hundred at Regan as a promise of an additional tip… well, Regan was going to provide table-side delivery.

As she hustled out from behind the counter, she frowned down at the cup as she tried to snap the lid on.

"This fucking thing," she muttered. The most recent shipment of lids for their large hot cups weren't snapping onto the cups quite right, and –

Regan gasped in surprise as she bumped into someone, hot coffee leading the way.

A cold terror slid through her veins, and she swore she watched the next few seconds play out in slow motion. As the shitty, malfunctioning lid popped right off, and the literally steaming hot liquid dumped from over the lip of the cup down the woman's shirt.

"Shit!" She shouted in the middle of the packed café because she was a professional. "Oh, god! Fuck!"

While she was yelling, the other woman grit her jaw, grimacing deeply in pain. Which made a ton of sense.

That drink had been hot; the bit that had splattered on Regan's fingers had hurt, even. So she could only imagine how it felt all over this woman's chest.

Her very ample chest that was only a couple inches lower than eye level for Regan, who was level with this woman's strong jaw.

And this woman's pale blue long-sleeved button-up had already been form-fitting, but it was utterly soaked through, now, clinging to the woman like a second skin. Regan could clearly see her bra and how hard her nipples were.

Fuck, those must be burning, too! Regan's own nipples were so sensitive that she'd have probably been in tears if hot coffee had been poured on them.

Out of pure reflex, she dropped the cup and reached out, grabbing both sides of the woman's shirt so she could rip it open, trying to get some cool air on her.

Regan would be the first person to say that sometimes her… impulsivity got ahead of her. But this was the right decision; she knew it was.

She could hear the scattering of buttons over the wooden floors, and she could feel the stares of most of the patrons. Which wasn't shocking, first because Regan had dumped coffee on her, and now because, like, seriously , this woman had breasts to die for.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The woman finally spoke. Rather, growled.

"Helping!" Regan shouted back, laser-focused on the task at hand.

She grabbed the woman's hand and started to pull her toward the employee break room, barely pausing as she shouted, "Jackie! I have an emergency! Please come cover the front!"

Without another second to waste, she tugged the woman into the back room, her thoughts racing. They had to check her for burns; everyone thought that the warning on the McDonald's cup was funny, but liquid burns were no joke! Then–

Before Regan could lead the woman to one of the chairs at the break table, the woman yanked her hand out from Regan's, repeating, "What the fuck are you doing?!"

This time, it wasn't a quiet hiss, but a demanding shout.

It didn't bother Regan, though. This was a stressful situation, and stress begot yelling from time to time. Especially if she was hurt.

Regan turned, leaning in closer to inspect the skin of the woman's chest, where the majority of the liquid had made direct contact. Though the smooth, pale skin was pink from the heat of the coffee, it didn't appear to be blistering or have any other lasting repercussions. She lowered her gaze, looking at the woman's gently rounded stomach, which was also blushing from the heat, but –

The woman jerked her arms across herself as she repeated in a low, dangerous voice, "I don't want to ask again: What. The fuck. Are you doing?"

Satisfied that the woman wouldn't endure any serious burns, the relief that slid through Regan was swift and immense. God, that could have been terrible. As it was, it seemed like a ruined shirt was the only victim!

Turning on her heel, she pulled her unlocked locker open and started rooting through it. She definitely had a sweatshirt somewhere in here. "I saw this totally gross video once about this guy who spilled boiling water on his legs, and basically, he ended up with these sick burns because his pants had clung the hot liquid onto his skin, right? And the doctors had said the burns would have been way less severe if he hadn't had the pants on."

She shuddered from the visual; she could still clearly see in her mind's eye of the burns. God, that had been so disgustingly awful. They really had been so lucky just now.

Oh – there it was! Her sweatshirt.

"Got it!" She cried out triumphantly, pulling it out from where it was nestled between her cosmetics bag and spare rain jacket.

Her very well-loved, soft, blue and gray Brandeis sweatshirt – from the single year of college that she'd attended – that she kept here for when the air conditioning was turned up too high.

She turned to give it to the woman, finally taking a good look at her in a non-clinical way.

She had a long, graceful neck and a very strong jaw that led down to that expanse of soft-looking skin of her chest. She had a light smattering of freckles that stood out starkly against the pink irritation, and Regan's gaze, again, was drawn to her white lacy bra that was very much on display now. It seemed to only be slightly dampened, though, which was great. Because, unlike the sweatshirt, Regan most definitely did not have a bra lurking in her locker that would be able to accommodate this woman's band or cup size.

"My eyes are up here," the woman grit out.

Summoned, Regan snapped her own eyes up to meet them. The eyes in question were an icy blue, which was the only way Regan could imagine to describe them.

"I see that," she agreed, as she felt twin chills at the base of her spine and the pit of her stomach from the look she received, which fascinated her on a whole other level. That was a new experience for her!

The woman's hair – caught between a dark blonde and a light brown – had been spared from the coffee fiasco, pulled up into an elegant braided twist, which added to her previously professional look with the button-up and the well-fitted black pants.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" The woman demanded to know before she crossed her arms tighter and then grimaced in disgust at – what Regan guessed was – the wet stickiness of the coffee that still soaked the material.

"I mean, adult-identified ADHD. But I don't really like to look at it as something that's wrong with me."

The set of the crazily strong jaw and an entirely unamused sigh told Regan that this woman did not find any levity here. Which was a shame because Regan was usually pretty good with levity.

She stared into the woman's eyes, hoping that her deeply apologetic feelings were mirrored there. "I'm just – it's been totally hectic here, and I didn't look before I turned around, which was a really dumb rookie mistake, and I didn't see you. I swear, I didn't mean to–"

"No, I got how you spilled the coffee. What I don't get is where the hell you get off, ripping my shirt off at all, let alone in front of fifty people!"

"It was more like twenty people, tops, and I thought you were going to have third-degree burns!" She gesticulated wildly, a curl of remorse about the shirt incident sliding through her stomach; that was how it always happened. She acted first, and then everything else came later. "I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking."

"Yeah, clearly," the woman snapped in her low, clear voice. "Do you ever?"

"Well. Ouch." She cradled her sweatshirt in her arms and leaned back on her heels.

"Not only do I have my first meeting with my advisor with a coffee-soaked and stained shirt, but one that doesn't have any fucking buttons," the woman absolutely fumed.

"Oh!" Thankfully reminded of what she'd been doing, Regan pushed her sweatshirt toward the woman. "Here. Take this. I mean, it's no fancy ironed button-up – you know, I didn't realize twenty-somethings owned irons anymore? I definitely don't – but it is from Brandeis, which is a, uh, really… good… school."

Her words came out slower as the woman whipped off her shirt entirely, her chest heaving in the white bra as she muttered unintelligible but clearly angry words under her breath. She grabbed Regan's sweatshirt and jerked it on over her head.

"Well, thank god I like to buy my sweatshirts a couple of sizes bigger," she commented with an appreciative nod.

Regan liked to cuddle into that sweatshirt for comfort, and she bought it with that purpose in mind. So it sat baggy and low on her, ending at her mid-thighs. On this woman, conversely, it hugged her chest and sat flatteringly fittingly on her curved hips.

She only realized her words could be taken the wrong way when the woman's mouth fell open in offense, and she gave Regan a look that she could only explain as – this woman definitely thought she was legit out of her fucking mind; she was somewhat familiar with it.

"Unbelievable."

"Not that I'm, like, calling you fat," she quickly explained, shaking her head, before she thought for a second and wrinkled her nose at herself and added on, "Or that there is anything wrong with being fat, either, for that matter, I just meant, like, it fits well–"

The woman clearly did not want to stick around to hear the rest. She huffed out a breath and balled up her wet shirt in her fist as she cut Regan off, "I'm leaving now."

She strode to the door before pausing and took a noticeably deep breath. She squared her shoulders and it only then occurred to Regan that this woman was embarrassed to walk back out through the café full of people who'd seen her without her shirt.

"I'm really–" she started, stepping towards the woman. Who strode out of the back room without a backward glance as if propelled away by Regan's voice, "Sorry."

If she had given Regan a moment to speak, Regan would have offered her an exit through the back!

Regan had nearly forgotten about that terrible, no-good morning a month later.

The semester was re-starting after winter break, and business was picking back up at Topped Off, but that wasn't Regan's problem tonight! Because tonight, she was having a night in with her best friend/roommate, Sutton.

Sutton was on her way back from her first day of classes, officially halfway through her second year of grad school, and had texted Regan an hour ago to say:

I hope you didn't order dinner already! I'm going to leave campus soon, but I've been hanging out for the afternoon with Dr. Woods' new teaching assistant and showing her the ropes. I invited her to have dinner with us if that's okay?

Regan's reminder alarm to order dinner had just gone off, so…

You got me just in time. Hit me with the order. Can't wait to meet your new school friends, sunshine!

She'd just received their order and laid the spread out on their kitchen table when their apartment door opened. "And your fortunate timing continues, Sutton-lucky-Spencer!" She shouted, wiping her hands on her thighs as she moved to step through the doorway into their short front hall.

Only to stumble over her feet and come to a stop at the sight of the woman next to Sutton. Tall – just as tall as Sutton was, in fact – with familiar icy blue eyes.

Sutton grinned, bright and oblivious, as she nodded toward Regan. "Emma, this is my roommate, Regan." She gestured at the woman. "And this is Emma, my fellow teaching assistant."

Those icy blue eyes seemed to frost over as they widened, then narrowed. "We've met," she'd muttered darkly.

Even though it had been weeks , Emma's glare was just as sharp as it had been that day. Regan was fairly certain right then and there that they were not destined to be friends.