The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(14)

Killing me none too softly.

When he stopped, Eloise fluttered her hands together in a soft clap. His head with that thick, black spiky hair snapped up in surprise.

“Hey,” he said, his trademark smile blossoming across his chiseled features. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

She held her hands out, palms up. “You said ‘check it out’ so here I am. Besides, I thought it might be wise to go where the natives go since they’re getting restless. Where’d you learn to play guitar?”

He set the instrument on a nearby metal stand and walked toward her. Towering over her. Imposing.

Electrifying.

“High school. I mostly just play by ear, though. Hey, Spud,” he called in the direction of the bar. A stocky, good-natured looking man with muttonchops and a Gatsby cap popped up from behind the bar, a cleaning cloth in his hand.

“Yeah?” the man said in a gritty voice, perfectly matched to the venue.

“Meet a friend of mine, Eloise Robertson. She works for the Riot, in the swanky front office. She’s a suit. Eloise, this is Spud Davies.”

Spud smiled and nodded. “Can I get you anything, miss?”

“No way, dude,” Cole said. “I got this. I’ve finally perfected that Kigali Kong recipe and Eloise is just the customer to try it out. She’s no stranger to a little treat now and then.” He moved behind the bar next to Spud, pulling out cups and containers.

“Pleased to meet you, Spud,” El said. “I assume that’s a nickname? If not, I’d be anxious to meet your parents.”

“My real name’s Spencer. Spud has more to do with my shape,” he said, smiling and patting a hand to his belly before moving away to continue his cleaning tasks. “And if you met my mom, she’d tell you she didn’t like the nickname. But my dad does. Uses it all the time.”

She turned back to Cole as he continued shuffling his ingredients. “You moonlight here?” she asked with a chuckle. “Guess eight mil a year doesn’t go as far as it used to.”

Cole stopped in mid-motion and flashed her a mischievous smile, the effect so sexy Eloise thought her heart might melt and drip down through her toes. “Checking my pay stubs are you?” He clucked his tongue. “What would Murphy say?”

“It’s public record.” Eloise unbuttoned her coat and climbed onto a barstool to face him as he worked, despite her aversion to tall seating – one of the hazards of being short and full-hipped. She watched him create his masterpiece from scratch, starting with fresh-ground beans.

“Now these are a medium-roast,” he said. “I get them from a college buddy who ended up on a coffee plantation in Rwanda. Did you know Rwanda grows amazing coffee beans?”

Eloise shook her head. Aside from Kylie’s steamed milk creation, she didn’t much care where her coffee came from. She could certainly see Cole’s passion for it though as he talked and brewed. His antics got her body firing, wondering if that same passion for coffee and hockey transferred to all of his pursuits.

When he’d finished, he slid a wide-brimmed cup across the counter to her, its foamy surface decorated with an outline of a sunburst. A whole vanilla bean served as a stirrer. It looked too beautiful to drink.

“It’s on the house. Sorry I don’t have any powdered doughnuts to go with it,” he said with a grin.

“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Just this once.”

He’d made one for himself as well and lifted his cup in a small toast. Eloise smiled her thanks and raised hers to her lips. The deep, almost smoky flavor of the brew was intoxicating; she’d never tasted anything so unique, and she liked it.

“Wow.”

Cole smiled. “Succinct, but descriptive nonetheless. I like a woman who verbalizes what she likes. In one syllable or less.”

Spud nodded his approval from where he stood a few feet away, tidying the bar shelves. Eloise reminded herself why she’d come. “Mr. Davies, can I ask you something? I was talking to one of your neighbors a few doors down, and he said he was worried about the new whiskey bar hurting business around here. What are your thoughts?”

A shadow flickered over Spud’s round face. “I’ve been here a few years now and being near the Arena is good for the most part; lots of fans stop by before and after games. I’m sure you know what they charge for food and drinks inside the rink,” he chuckled. “But this VIP lounge thing is just unnecessary. Guys like Sheehan Murphy don’t need a bigger piece of the pie, they’re already stinking rich. Why does he have to squeeze out small businessmen like us? It’s unfair.”

Before Eloise could respond, Cole interrupted the conversation. “Don’t get this guy started on the evils of corporate greed,” he warned her. “You’ll be here all night. You’d think he owns the place,” he said with a crafty smile. He moved to her side of the bar and took a seat next to her. “You like?” he asked, pointing to her coffee.

“It’s wonderful,” she admitted, taking another sip. “So in addition to playing guitar, you’re a gifted barista, on top of being a pro hockey player. Is there no end to the talents of Mr. Cole Fiorino?”

He shrugged. “I’d rather talk about your talents. Where are you from, and how does a girl like you end up in the hockey world?”