Knit Tight (Portland Heat Series, #4)
by Annabeth Albert
Blurb:
It’s no secret that Portland, Oregon, has some of best restaurants, shops, and cafés in the country. But it’s the hard-working men who serve it all up that keep us coming back for more...
One of Portland’s hottest young baristas, Brady is famous for his java-topping flair, turning a regular cup of joe into a work of art. Every Wednesday—aka “Knit Night”—hordes of women and their needles descend on the coffeehouse, and Brady’s feeling the heat. Into the fray walks a tall, dark, and distractingly handsome stranger from New York. His name is Evren, and he’s the sexy nephew of Brady’s sweetest customer, the owner of the yarn shop down the street. He’s also got a killer smile, confident air, and masculine charm that’s tying Brady’s stomach in knots. The smitten barista can’t wait to see him at the next week’s gathering. But when he tries to ask Evren out, his plans unravel faster than an unfinished edge. If Brady hopes to warm up more than Evren’s coffee, he’ll have to find a way to untangle their feelings, get out of the friend zone, and form a close-knit bond that’s bound to last a lifetime…
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Excerpt
“You’re my favorite barista,” the girl said
with a self-conscious giggle. She was all of eighteen, if that, and reminded me
of my sister, with her wispy hair and pale skin.
“Tonight
I’m the only barista.” I took a breath, kept my tone light,
and didn’t give in to the urge to sigh heavily.
I
grabbed a mug to get her latte started. Wednesday nights were our busiest of
the week, and I was stuck working alone because my coworker had called in sick.
I hated Wednesdays, but I wasn’t in a position to turn down
hours. As it was, our boss had been slashing staff for the evening shifts,
citing cost-cutting measures, so he hadn’t seen fit to give me a backup.
“You’re
the best barista I’ve got, Brady. You can handle it,” he’d said on the phone,
in his usual offhand manner. He didn’t like to be bothered with what he deemed
trivial stuff. So I was alone to face Wednesday hell, better known as Knit
Night, the weekly event in which a horde of women and their baskets of fibers descended
on the coffee shop. But they all bought at least one drink and that meant tips
in my jar.
And
I was a damn fine barista, something I reminded myself as I put a little flair
into making the girl’s drink. She came here for this after all—the little bit
of a show as I flipped the mug and steamed the milk, the latte-art smiley face
I finished the drink with, the winning smile I dredged up as I handed it over.
For an instant I made her feel like she was the sole focus of my attention
instead of the line of traffic behind her. That was my skill, the one that was
going to elevate me from Brady the barista to Brady the national-champion
barista and alleviate a whole shitload of problems.
Buzz. From deep in my black
apron pocket, my phone vibrated against my thigh. Hell. One of those problems
was undoubtedly slipping into a crisis state, but I couldn’t risk fishing the
phone out with a line of customers. I’d have to hope that my sister could hold
down the fort at home and that whatever it was could wait for a lull in the
rush.
The
next order was the girl’s friend, another latte, another smiley face, but I
made the mistake of glancing up at the door as I worked. The next customer to
come in was the hottest guy I’d seen in a very long time. He had artfully styled
black hair, the sort of purposefully messy cut that probably cost three digits
and took twenty minutes in the morning to perfect. His slim-fitting jeans also
looked designer—a rich color somewhere between brown and black and a subtle
sheen to the fabric. A fancifully wrapped scarf over a close-fitting,
long-sleeved shirt would probably get noticed by the Knit Night ladies, which
was exactly what I did not want to have happen.
Our
eyes met as I drew the latte art with a stirring stick, and he grinned widely
at me. Gorgeous rose-pink lips and perfect white teeth straight out of a dental
ad, and—
Frak
me. I flubbed the smiley
face, distracted by my efforts to memorize the handsome stranger. Rather than
hand over a squiggly mess, I chucked the cup and started over. The girl didn’t
seem to care as she was deep in conversation with her friend at the end of the
bar.
“Sorry
about the wait,” I said to the guy when it was finally his turn and he moved up
to order. His intent gaze coupled with his polished appearance made me more
conscious of my untrimmed beard and scruffy ponytail and made me wish I was
wearing something a bit nicer than a faded People’s Cup T-shirt.
“It
is no problem,” the guy said. He had a gorgeous voice—deep and polished, like a
shiny piece of ebony. He had the fast speech and clipped consonants of an East
Coast accent, but there was a lilt of something more exotic there, too. “I am
happy to wait. Very peaceful in here.”
Ha.
I checked the clock as I tried to think of some flirty reply. The heavy glass
door that led to Alberta Street swung open. It was 6:58 and Violet
was first as usual, holding the door open for the herd of knitters. Not the
steady trickle of a breakfast or lunch rush but twenty-plus women, all obsessed
with punctuality and festooned with hats, scarves, and knit vests. Each ordered
drinks for here with the sort of lengthy deliberation of someone who only
ordered one coffee a week.
An
older woman with the look and demeanor of a no-nonsense teacher, Violet made it
her business to keep her fellow knitters in line. Knit Night was the brainchild
of Iplik, the yarn store just down the street from us on Alberta, but Violet
was the weekly event’s unofficial hostess. As usual, she started giving her
comrades orders about table rearrangement.
The
People’s Cup wasn’t huge by any means, and Knit Night tended to fill the joint
up. The space was longer than it was wide, with couches in front of the
plateglass window, the coffee bar running along one wall, tables in the middle
of the room, and a long wooden farmhouse bench and table for communal seating
in the back of the room. The Knit Night ladies liked to turn the couches around
and group the center tables together, creating a setup conducive to
conversation but a tripping hazard for the rest of the patrons. And the
arrangement resulted in an unholy din really, especially on nights when their
ranks swelled to thirty or more.
“Remember
to keep the aisle clear,” I said to Violet and her minions. I’d warned them
about creating tripping hazards with their knitting gear, but it was as futile
as telling the twins and Jonas to keep their Legos in one area. Like my
siblings, the ladies loved to spread out their projects.
“What’ll
it be?” I swung back to the register, no closer to having the right banter for
the stranger, but no longer in a position to care. However, he’d stepped aside
for Violet and her herbal tea order.
“I’ll
be back when the line clears,” he said with a wink. He had a leather messenger
bag, the sort meant to look like something Indiana Jones would haul around, for
which one paid for every crinkle in the distressed finish. He’d probably come
in wanting a quiet place to work.
He
had the look and accent of a displaced New Yorker—working some cushy freelance
job, no doubt. I liked thinking up little stories about my customers, but I
didn’t bother coming up with a lengthy one for him. He wouldn’t be back once he
saw how loud Knit Night got. And the ladies were likely to pester him about his
intricately knit scarf with its pattern of interwoven cables. One time, I’d
made the mistake of wearing a wool beanie I’d found for a buck at the thrift
store. Every single knitter needed to remark on its
construction. Dude was so going to be beating feet once Knit
Night got underway.
Name: Brady
Job: Barista at People’s Cup in Portland, Oregon
Born: Portland, Oregon
Likes: Burgers, trying new foods, Salt & Straw ice cream, single-origin espresso, Harry Potter, skateboarding, kid artwork
Dislikes: Chicken nuggets, teacher conferences, rent, bi-erasure, complications, country music
Description: Slim, Brady rocks the Portland lumbersexual hipster look: beard, man bun, pierced ears, and flannel over t-shirts along with thrift store chic. Brady enjoys skateboarding to and from work.
But beneath Brady’s very Portland-esque looks lies a hard-working young man trying to provide for his family. Brady is raising his siblings, and he’s struggling to keep the family together and make a home for them while establishing himself as one of the best baristas in the country. When a handsome stranger wanders into his coffee shop, Brady isn’t sure whether he has room in his life for another complication.
Find out more about Brady in KNIT TIGHT!
The Portland Heat Series
About The Author
Annabeth Albert grew up sneaking romance novels under the bed covers. Now, she devours all subgenres of romance out in the open—no flashlights required! When she’s not adding to her keeper shelf, she’s a multi-published Pacific Northwest romance writer.
Emotionally complex, sexy, and funny stories are her favorites both to read and to write. Annabeth loves finding happy endings for a variety of pairings and is a passionate gay rights supporter. In between searching out dark heroes to redeem, she works a rewarding day job and wrangles two children.
You can find Annabeth at
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