Eleanor's POV
The café smelled like roasted beans and tension before he even stepped in. The collision this morning still burned in my chest, replaying like a bad film I couldn't fast-forward. Every nerve in me screamed: not him. Not now.
He entered without looking, phone pressed to his ear, a tailored suit that screamed "I own the world," and a presence that made me grind my teeth. My pulse spiked—not just from anger, but something else. Something dangerous I didn't want to acknowledge.
I tried to focus on the espresso machine, but my gaze kept snapping back to him. He muttered into his phone as he approached the counter, impatient, clipped: "Yes, I said a double espresso. No, not that—just standard. Quick."
I clenched my jaw. My hands itched to snap back, to throw his arrogance in his face, but professionalism held me for a second. Just breathe, Eleanor. Keep it together.
"Of course," I said, voice tight, teeth clenched. I prepped the espresso, steam hissing, aroma thick in the air. He tossed a few bills onto the counter without a glance and continued talking.
I handed him the cup. "Here's your espresso, sir. Double shot, as requested."
He lifted it, still mid-phone call, and sipped. Immediate grimace. Of course.
"This… this isn't what I ordered."
I froze, then snapped. "Excuse me? Do you even know how to order properly?" I slammed a hand on the counter. Customers flinched. My pulse thundered. My fury from the morning collided with this new insult.
He looked up finally, and recognition flickered in his dark eyes.
"Not only are you blind when crossing the road," he said, smirk tugging at his lips, "but you're also deaf if you can't understand someone's order."
Heat roared in my chest. How dare he?
"I—I am not deaf!" I snapped, slamming my hands on the counter again. "And you—are impossible!"
A soft chuckle escaped him, the audacity twisting my stomach. Amusement. He's still on the phone, still calm, still infuriating.
"I'm serious," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You almost got yourself killed this morning."
My fists clenched, knuckles white. "And you almost killed me!" The words roared from me. "Do you even realize what you did?"
His smirk faltered slightly, tension lining his jaw. Ah, so he's furious too. Not just teasing…
"Maybe if you weren't so stubborn, you wouldn't have been in the middle of traffic," he muttered, calm but cutting.
"Maybe if you weren't so arrogant, you wouldn't think the world revolves around your orders!" I shot back, voice rising, chest tight.
He leaned casually on the counter, still smirking. Stubborn, fiery… just like I remember.
I squared my shoulders, hands still clenched. Heat radiated off me. I am not impressed. Not by him, not by this ridiculous man.
"Still as sharp-tongued as ever," he murmured, eyes locked on mine. "Impressive."
I froze, heartbeat spiking. "Exactly what you remember?" My voice was low, tense.
"Yes. Very memorable," he replied, head tilted slightly, a predator's smile lingering.
I wanted to scream, to shove him, to push back—but my mind refused to cooperate. My blood hummed with anger… and something else I didn't want to name.
He finally straightened, lifting the espresso cup slightly, almost testing me. "Not over," he said softly, words hanging in the air like a challenge.
I watched him leave, confidence radiating from every movement. My chest heaved. Fury still burned, but under it, that spark… dangerous, delicious, infuriating… lingered. And I knew, this wasn't the last I'd see of him.
Giovanni's POV
The city was chaos this morning, and my nerves were frayed before stepping into the café. Luca's calls, investors, deadlines—I had been on edge all day. But nothing ignited me more than the memory of that woman this morning.
She had nearly gotten herself killed, and I'd barely restrained my temper in the street. Now, seeing her here, in her little café, my chest tightened. Fury still lingered from the collision, hot and sharp.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped in. Espresso was my goal. Quick, sharp, necessary. Phone pressed to my ear, still mid-conversation. I glanced at the counter, dark hair, focused energy… and it hit me. Her. Recognition, sudden and undeniable. But I couldn't let it show—my irritation and pride needed dominance first.
Leaning on the counter, I spoke into the phone, clipped, detached: "Yes, I said a double espresso. No, not that—just standard. Quick."
She didn't look up immediately, but her posture radiated tension, anger. Exactly like I remembered. I tossed a few bills on the counter without so much as a glance.
The espresso came, steam rising. I lifted it mid-call and sipped—and grimaced. Not what I ordered. My eyes snapped to her, dark and calculating. Recognition sharpened: She's the one from the street.
"Not only are you blind when crossing the road," I said, a smirk tugging at my lips despite the simmering fury, "but you're also deaf if you can't understand someone's order."
Her eyes widened, jaw dropping. Anger. Heat. Perfect.
"I—I am not deaf!" she snapped, slamming her hands on the counter. "And you—are impossible!"
A chuckle escaped me, soft but controlled, masking the tension in my jaw. She's bold, fiery, and exactly what I needed to remind me she exists.
"I'm serious," I added, narrowing my eyes, letting the fury from the street mingle with the amusement now. "You almost got yourself killed this morning."
Her fists clenched, knuckles white. "And you almost killed me!" she shouted. My chest tightened, the anger sparking with something else—irritation laced with intrigue.
I leaned casually on the counter, finally ending the call. Phone clicked off. Smirk still in place. Her fire, her defiance, exactly as I remembered.
"Maybe if you weren't so stubborn, you wouldn't have been in the middle of traffic," I muttered, calm but cutting.
"Maybe if you weren't so arrogant, you wouldn't think the world revolves around your orders!" she shot back, voice rising.
I raised a brow, amused, watching her. Stubborn, fiery… and completely unforgettable.
She squared her shoulders, heat radiating off her, hands clenched at her sides. Every detail was magnetic—her posture, the tilt of her chin, the strength in her eyes.
"Still as sharp-tongued as ever," I murmured, keeping my gaze locked on hers. "Impressive."
Her pulse thudded, heat rising. "Exactly what you remember?" she asked, low and tense.
"Yes. Very memorable," I said, head tilted slightly, predator's smile lingering.
Her fire, her anger—it made me grin, but beneath it, tension from the morning's collision still burned, sharp and real.
I straightened, lifting the espresso cup slightly, almost testing her. "Not over," I said softly, letting the words hang in the thick, charged air.
The café around us faded. Steam hissed, cups clinked, murmurs of customers filled the background—but all I saw was her. Fuming, angry, and entirely captivating.
Her fists clenched, her posture defiant. She's impossible. My desire, curiosity, and irritation tangled together like fire and oil.
I stepped back, shoulders straight, but never lowered my eyes. Confidence radiated from every movement. My fury hadn't cooled—it was tempered now by fascination, amusement, and a dangerous attraction.
She didn't know how close she was to infuriating me… and tempting me at the same time(damn i need to get laid)