Whole Latte Love (The Jewells) Read online

  An obese bum lay snoring on a colorful mosaic bench in front of the intercom. Stepping around him, Carina pressed the button marked ‘Jewell.’

  There was no buzzing or ringing sound and the screen remained dark. Carina glanced around to see if any residents approached. Maybe someone could let her in.

  The property looked well-maintained with a fresh paint job, the art-deco earth tones a nice update from the cheaper beige stucco units with the outside stairway at the last place she visited.

  She pressed the button again and noticed the bum from the side of her eye. He rolled to his feet and stretched. He wasn’t tall, but his pants were too short and his belly protruded over his beltline. Dirty blond hair going gray stuck out from under a worn Oakland A’s baseball cap.

  “Hey ya.” He extended a thick, grubby hand. “I’m Gordie the doorman, but I’m really a prince.”

  The Fresh Prince of Berkeley? Right. She’d been warned about the Berkeley bums, some with advanced degrees who’d somehow gotten lost in a fog of drugs and rebellion.

  Just like being approached by strange dogs, Carina knew not to back away and show fear. Instead, she looked him in the eye and gave him a tiny wave. “Nice to meet you.”

  Gordie tugged at the lapels of his filthy raincoat. “This here’s one of the swankiest places in beautiful downtown Berkeley. But it’s haunted.”

  Maybe she should forget about this unit, especially if the likes of him haunted it. She stepped away from the panel. “You might want to let the management know the intercom is broken.”

  The bum chuckled and withdrew a key from his coat pocket. “Told ya, I’m the doorman.”

  Yeah, and I’m the Empress of China.

  But then, the apartment was convenient to the BART station and Carina’s feet were really sore. She ought to at least see it.

  She opened her purse. “How much do you want?”

  “From you? A story.”

  “Come again?” Alarm bells rang. A bum who didn’t want a handout? Was he flirting with her? She judged him to be in his early forties. Small wrinkles flared from the edges of his whiskey colored eyes. Not bleary though, and he didn’t reek of alcohol. “I’ll just call the person I’m meeting and ask her to come down.”

  Gordie picked his teeth with the key. “Tell me your story.”

  “I’m rather boring.” She rummaged in her purse and closed her fingers on the pepper spray. “In fact, I think I’m going to try another apartment.”

  “You got pepper spray, don’t ya?”

  How the heck did he know? She loosened her grip and dug through her bag. “Actually, getting my wallet. Are you hungry?”

  The bum scratched his ample belly. “Maybe later. What’s your story?”

  Carina slumped onto the bench and kicked off her heels. “My feet ache. I’ve been looking for a place to stay for the summer. I’m sure you’re aware how expensive everything is.”

  Gordie whistled and eyed the building from top down. “Oh, yeah, that’s why I live in the lobby. And to think I used to live in a grand palace. My bed was trimmed with gold and I ate with real silver. My da’ was King of Scotland.”

  “Scotland? I didn’t know they had a king.” She raked her mind to recall the various Highlander romance novels she’d enjoyed. Might as well humor him. He seemed good-natured and he did have the key. “Wasn’t there something about Bonnie Prince Charlie and Culloden?”

  “I was there, but I went through the rocks and got away.”

  “I’m glad you escaped. It must have been a shock.” Carina was used to talking to people with a rich fantasy life due to her elder brother’s schizoaffective disorder. “Are you planning on going back?”

  Gordie glanced around and cupped his hand. “Shh … I’m here on a secret mission to raise funds. We need gold to buy our comrades out of prison.”

  She figured as much. “So, Prince Gordie, think you can get me into this building?”

  He jiggled the key. “I might be able to arrange that.”

  “Of course you can.” Carina extracted a twenty from her wallet and handed it to him.

  “I thank ye for yer contribution to Scottish independence.” He pocketed the bill and turned the key, opening the panel. Twisting two wires together, he smiled. “All fixed. Glad to be of service, my lady.”

  “The honor’s all mine,” Carina said under her breath. California sure had its share of colorful characters. Wait ’til she told her friends back home.

  She turned her attention back to the intercom. This time, when she pressed the button it connected.

  “Yeah?” a man’s voice drawled through the speaker.

  Oh, no. For some strange reason she thought Jewell would be a female name.

  “I’m Carina Chen. I’m here about renting a room?”

  “Sure, let me buzz you in. I’m on the sixth floor, two doors to the right of the elevator. Number 68.”

  Jitters took flight in her belly. The man’s voice was too sexy, as if he’d been interrupted in the act. Blush. Should she go up or not?

  She glanced at Gordie, who leaped to open the door. Now that she’d paid to get through, she might as well check out the room.

  She stepped through the lobby and walked by a row of antique-looking brass mailboxes. A large painting of a weeping tree with bright red flowers hung over the abandoned concierge desk. A small fitness center was empty behind a glass door, and a lap pool sparkled on the other side of the archway leading to the elevators. Not bad.

  A minute later, Carina got off the elevator and knocked on the door.

  Dylan opened it. He looked like she’d roused him from a nap, eyelids at half-mast and hair rumpled. Carina bit back the urge to straighten his shirt and flick the stray hairs from his face.

  He crossed his arms and smirked knowingly. “Hey, it’s you. I knew we’d find each other again.”

  Smart aleck.

  “I-I’m not sure. Maybe it’s the wrong place.”

  “The only way to know for sure is to have a look around. Come on in.” He made a grand flourish with his hand and tipped his head.

  A whiff of cologne, piquant, like pine and leather, warned her to turn tail and run. Instead, she swallowed and peered around him into the cramped living room. Surprisingly, it was neat and organized, unlike the tornado scattered in the apartment full of math graduate students she’d visited earlier.

  She sidestepped by him, trying to ignore the sparks zipping in the space between them, and swallowed. Wait, she wasn’t drooling, was she?

  “Take your jacket?” He looked way too amused at the thought of stripping her.

  “No thanks. Do you have air conditioning?” She pulled her blazer tighter over her shoulders.

  “I don’t use it much. Trying to lower my carbon footprint.” He toggled a button on the thermostat, turning it on.

  “Thanks.” She fixed her gaze on the interior, avoiding Dylan. The floor plan consisted of a single living room opening into the kitchen area. A leather sofa faced a flat panel TV, and the walls were painted a rich mango shade. Colorful African tribal masks hung behind the sofa, and the table lamps sported bright geometric kente cloth lampshades. Lush potted plants completed the décor.

  Dragging her gaze from the masks, one grinning and the other frowning, she walked toward the floor-to-ceiling window.

  “You’ll love the bay view.” Dylan opened a sliding glass door to a small balcony. The Bay Bridge glittered on the left and way off in the distance rose the vermillion lines of the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Carina breathed deeply, her hand on the balcony rail, all too aware of Dylan’s heated body hovering behind her. “It’s beautiful, but let me see the kitchen.”

  “After you.” He shut the glass door and stopped in front of the stove to stir a pot. Chopped vegetables lay on the cutting board, and a large, restaurant-grade espresso machine covered most of the small countertop.

  “Seems okay,” she said, and turned toward the bedrooms. Not going to give him an indicatio
n either way. Maybe she could negotiate a price cut.

  The one with the open door was empty except for a bed, dresser, and chair. She examined the carpet and walls and looked in the sliding door closet. No stains and odors, but the room needed a good vacuuming.

  “How does it look?” Dylan’s voice startled her. How had he slipped in without her hearing?

  “Not bad. Could you get me something to drink? Water’s fine.”

  Oops, had she just spoken to him as if he were a waiter? She cringed inside, but he seemed to take it in stride. Her faculty advisor had warned her about her frigid demeanor, and she thought coming to California would loosen her up, make her more approachable.

  “Even better, I’ll make you an iced mocha.” Dylan’s smooth voice sent a delightful chilly vision of chocolate kisses over frosted mugs. Stop now and keep to the business at hand.

  The place was almost perfect: amenities, access to public transportation … perfect except for the hotlicious man with the fuck-me eyes.

  As soon as said man exited, Carina flipped on the light and moved the mattress a few inches to examine it. Sweeping her fingers beneath the sheets, she looked for telltale blood spots and other evidence detailed on the bedbug website.

  “What are you doing?” Dylan walked into the room and placed a glass on the nightstand.

  “Uh … sorry, you caught me checking.”

  “For bedbugs? Sheesh.” He swept his hands across his chest. “You might want to check me for fleas and ticks while you’re at it.”

  Not going to be baited. Although … what would it be like to inspect the planes and dips of his chiseled … Hold the hormones. Career first.

  “Nothing personal.” She brushed by him and opened the door to the bathroom. “I’m paying a lot of money and the last thing I need are pests.” Especially the two-legged ones.

  Dylan padded to the living room and slouched on the couch, flicking on the TV. “Let me know when I pass inspection.”

  Did Mr. Rock Star wear a pout? Bet he’d enjoy a personal inspection. But onwards. The bathroom was surprisingly clean for a single, young man. Carina checked behind the toilet and under the sink. What’s this? A glass cookie jar filled with colorful packets of condoms was tucked behind the pipes. Ugh. She wasn’t signing up to live in a frat house.

  Proceeding into the hallway, she opened the small linen closet. It was stocked full of neatly folded towels and sheets. Devoid of drug paraphernalia, whips, chains or sex toys. Good. This could work, given a few restrictions on the sexual traffic.

  She sidled past Dylan to the kitchen and picked through the cupboards. No sign of roaches or ants, and all the dishes were clean.

  Satisfied, she stopped in front of him. “You passed, but before I sign, I want to go over a few rules.”

  “Rules?” He raised his eyebrows and turned off the TV. “You come here with the white gloves and you want rules?”

  “Purely business. May I sit?” She didn’t dare let him think he’d get the upper hand with his flirty looks and bedroom eyes. Perish the thought. He wasn’t her type.

  “I have my own rules too.” He patted the couch. “I’m not exactly a pushover.”

  “Didn’t expect you to be.” Carina sat just out of reach and pulled out her checklist, already populated with data from the math grad students and hippie women. She made another column and wrote ‘Sexy Barista’ on top.

  Dylan leaned to peek, but Carina jerked the pad close to her chest.

  “Number one,” she said. “No noise after ten p.m. I have to sleep well for my job.”

  “What?” Dylan stifled a sneeze, or was it a chuckle? “The party starts at midnight around here. Sometimes I don’t get back until one or two.”

  She held up her hand. “Doesn’t matter. Quiet hours are from ten p.m. to six a.m. Number two, no visitors during quiet hour.”

  “Whoa, I’m not running a convent here.” Dylan stood and crossed his arms. “You can stay celibate all summer, but not me.”

  Carina lowered her face to appear unaffected by the way his biceps bulged from the short sleeves of his t-shirt. She pretended to chew on her pen. She didn’t think he’d fall for that rule, but then again, she’d exposed a bargaining point.

  “How many times a week will you have overnight guests?”

  His mouth gaped as he bent in front of her, hands slapping his knee. “That’s kind of a personal question, isn’t it?”

  From the size of that cookie jar, Carina was sure it would be often. Not that she planned on being around other than to sleep.

  She twirled her pen in his direction. “Sure, but I’m wondering if we can prorate the rent. It hardly seems fair for me to pay fifty-fifty if you’re having people over all the time.”

  “What are you studying to be, a labor negotiator?” He shook his head and ran his long fingers through his thick, wavy hair. “I can’t answer that, okay?”

  Carina marked a minus sign next to the visitors item. “Next one. No drugs, alcohol, smoking, tobacco, weed, cigars, hashish.”

  Dylan’s eyebrows narrowed. “Is caffeine considered a drug?”

  “Nope.” Carina twisted her tongue to the side of her cheek. Bet no woman had ever laid down rules for him. “I’ll provide a schedule for chores. There’s bathroom duty, kitchen cleanup, vacuuming of the common areas. We alternate weekly.”

  He shook his head, but the edges of his lips curled into a half grin. “You’re a hard woman, Carina Chen. My turn.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Dylan snickered to himself as he grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. What a hard-ass. Not that Sheila hadn’t warned him. Valedictorian, National Merit Scholar, double major finance and mathematics, Wharton undergraduate business, Delta Sigma Pi, straight as an arrow, and definitely an overachiever.

  One point in her favor. She’d gotten past Gordie, so he’d better not underestimate her—unlike Rebecca, who had huffed off in a fright and driven away in her armored Benz, never to grace his doorstep again. Yep, living in downtown Berkeley had its benefits when deterring snooty women who applied mascara with hundred dollar bills.

  Dylan twisted the cap off the beer and took a refreshing mouthful. “My rules. Numero uno. You’ll stay on your side of the bed. No sneaking kisses, hugs, cuddles of any kind, and definitely no groping. I don’t want to find your pretty little hand wrapped around my love stick.”

  “You wish.” A blush reddened her face. “I’m never sleeping with the likes of you. Yuck.”

  Looked like Princess did all the dishing and couldn’t take a licking. This was going to be fun.

  He set the beer bottle down and rested his feet on the coffee table. “Two, I won’t be your date, escort, happy toy, luggage hauler, handy man, and definitely not your boyfriend. So banish the thought.”

  She threw her notepad at him. “Are we done here? You’re wasting my time.”

  He ducked the notepad and rolled onto the carpet. Barely able to restrain his laughter, he continued, “However, should you want to provide services of the wifely kind … there’s cooking my favorite meal, sitting in the front row at my gigs, and clasping your hands to your chest while tilting your head in admiration. Three times a week, you’re allowed to play hide the sausage.”

  Cold beer poured onto his head and dripped down his face. Carina stood over him and slammed the empty bottle on the coffee table. She lunged for her notepad, but Dylan was faster. He grabbed it and jumped to his feet, noting her tick marks and grinned. “Sexy Barista?”

  “Give that back.” She hopped on tippy toes, but he held it above his head.

  “Only if you take back all your rules.” Dylan jogged around the living room, one step ahead of her.

  “No, give me my notes.”

  “Sorry, looks like you’re stuck with ‘Gen Math’ or ‘Sixties Sisters.’” He knew he shouldn’t tease her, but the expression on her face, the tiny pout with two spots of blush on her cheeks was too precious. He slid the notepad onto the table. “Anything else you want to know a
bout me?”

  “Sure.” She stuffed the pad into her purse, scrunched her nose and surveyed the apartment. “How old are you?”

  Not the question he expected. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Twenty-six. I’m a late bloomer.”

  “Did you finish college? What was your major?” She squared her shoulders and peered at him, as if appraising a long cucumber.

  “I majored in business. And don’t ask me what I’m doing with my life.”

  “Not at all.” She peeled off her heavy blazer and swung it over her shoulder as she strutted around the coffee table. “Can you BS about inventory carrying costs, forward earnings analysis, and asset securitization?”

  “Rusty, but yeah. Why?” He couldn’t help noticing the silky hair cascading down her back, ending just above a sweet, firm ass encased in tight cigarette leg jeans. Asset securitization all right.

  Catlike, she crossed the room to his side and scissored the ends of his hair with her fingers. “Get a haircut and I’ll move in. I need a presentable date to the Intern Pitch Banquet.”

  “Whoa, I won’t cut my hair for anyone.” He caught her wrist and lowered it. The touch of her silky skin under his fingers revved the motor below his waist, and he fought hard to down his rising expectations. Maybe, if it meant getting her in bed … hair could always be grown back.

  Her lower lip jutted as she twisted out of his grasp. “Huh, I bet you bed them without even paying for dinner. Don’t worry. I’m not asking for that, and the bank’s providing the food, drinks, and entertainment. I have to look accomplished and successful so they’ll ask me back, and part of my image is being completely together, which means I’m not sitting around dateless and being hit on by the other interns.”

  Dylan’s words caught in his throat. She had him pegged. He’d never needed to take women out to sleep with them. So many made themselves available for pickup at the coffee shop, the jazz café, Sproul plaza, and even the campus bookstore. Heck, he didn’t even need to go bar hopping. Being irresponsible without prospects of a prestigious job had advantages. His bed partners hadn’t expected reliability or a future with him. He wasn’t the kind to settle down. Not at twenty-six, not at thirty, never.