There are three things I know.

The first. I am desperately attracted to Wells Hansen. It's not the fleeting "oh, he's hot" kind of attraction that you forget about twenty minutes later. It's more like the "I want you shirtless" type. The "I want your hands all over my body" kind of attraction.

The second thing. Whatever is happening between us isn't one-sided, like I had originally thought. The other night, he wanted to kiss me, and I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to bridge that centimeter gap between us and kiss me until I couldn't breathe.

And I would have let him do a lot more to me than just a kiss. I would have let him hoist me onto that small counter in the wine cellar, stepping in between my legs. I would have let his hands roaming under my clothing, tracing his mouth down my neck. He'd slip his hands und–.

I'm getting sidetracked. Focus Juniper.

And the third and final thing: None of this can happen. It just can't. For a multitude of reasons. Firstly, it's Wells Hansen, the man I've despised for the last two years. Secondly, I made a no-boys pact with my friends for the summer, and when I commit to something, I follow through. And lastly, there's a very strict no-fraternizing rule at work. If I broke it, I'd get fired. I'd lose my job.

Oh, and I'm supposed to be getting over my two-year-long relationship.

I make a mental note to Google what a reasonable amount of time is before you can officially consider yourself "moved on" from a relationship. I'm pretty certain one month is too short. At this point, anything with anyone would easily be labeled as a rebound, right?

And there's no way I can do rebounds, or hookups, or a one-night stand. I'm just not that kind of girl. I know, because the one time I attempted a one-night stand, I ended up befriending all his roommates, playing with his dog, and even watering his plants before I left the next morning. He had to very kindly ask me to leave.

It's just not physically possible for me. I like commitment. I like the idea of spooning in the middle of the night, the waking up next to the same person in the morning, and making breakfast together. I love everything that screams commitment. Hence two years of Beckett Moore.

"Excuse me." A man suddenly appears, snapping me out of my thoughts and redirecting my attention away from Wells. He points to the table next to me and asks, "Is someone sitting here?"

"Oh, um, no, I don't think so," I reply, shaking my head. Was there someone sitting there before? I've been so lost in my thoughts that I haven't been paying attention.

The man takes a seat, and I shift my focus back to Wells behind the counter, busy helping another customer.

He's not in his usual Hansen's Coffee Roasters uniform; instead, he's dressed in his typical Seattle Sun Times work attire. It's probably because he wasn't scheduled to work today; we were supposed to work together on this article. It's the last official interview we have, and then we can return to how things were before. I can maintain my distance from him.

But when I arrived, the coffee shop was bustling with customers, likely due to the cool 51-degree, cloudy weather and light drizzle outside. He spotted me from behind the counter and told me to take a seat, assuring me he'd be over in a few minutes. That was approximately 45 minutes ago.

45 minutes of struggling to resist the urge to look over in his direction.

45 minutes of pretending to be engrossed in work while my mind wanders.

45 minutes of attempting to convince myself to not give in to this attraction.

"I can convince myself, right?" I murmur to myself, and the man sitting at the table next to me shoots me a strange look. Oops.

I quickly clear my throat and return my attention back to Wells. I'll start with his outfit. I always thought he kind of dressed like an old man. So this should be easy.

My eyes trace down to his white collared shirt peeking through the top of the black sweater he has on. I find myself fixating on the hollow of his throat. I wonder if he's wearing that cologne I can vividly picture in my mind. That warm woody amber scent. The scent that makes me want to bury my face inside of it. Or maybe he smells like a hint of freshly roasted coffee beans from working all day. But it doesn't matter because I'm not going to find out.

He pushes up the sleeves, that he had rolled up to his forearms earlier to prevent them from getting in the way while making coffee. He presses the espresso into the portafilter, his forearms flexing as he does. I can't believe I never noticed how strong and veiny they are. I find myself staring at them for far too long, my mind drifting back to that brief moment in the bookstore when his arms were around me.

He turns around, his back to me as he pumps hazelnut syrup into a cup. My eyes can't help but drift down his backside. How did I ever miss that? The way his brown slacks snugly hug his ass, accentuating it so perfectly. He turns around again, and oh good God, I'm now left looking at his crotch, which is equally hugged just as perfectly as the rest of him.

I swallow hard.

"This plan isn't working," I mumble under my breath. The man next to me quickly glances over again, shifting in his seat to face away from me. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm crazy.

I shift my focus back to Wells, looking at his outfit over again. Normally, it would be a turn-off, but for some reason, it's just really doing something for me right now.

Maybe I should have let him know that our interviewee called and canceled about half an hour ago and went home like a normal person would do. But instead, I find myself here, glued to this chair.

He glances up at me while pulling shots from the espresso machine and catches me staring. I quickly avert my gaze back to my computer, aware of a smirk forming on his face from the corner of my eye, and I feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

I try to distract myself with my computer, clicking aimlessly on random things. I don't even know what I'm clicking on. Apparently, an ad for Pupsocks? Where you can print your dog's face on socks.

"What am I doing?" I whisper, and to my surprise, the man sitting next to me suddenly stands up and exits the coffee shop.

It seems all I need to do to resist giving in to Wells is talk to myself like a crazy person.

I close out of the tab as my computer pings with a text message at the top right corner of my laptop screen. I glance over to see Beckett's name. I let out a groan as frustration bubbles up inside of me. I bury my face in my hands, but almost immediately, I hear two more pings, back to back. I slowly lift my head, biting my lip, and reluctantly open up the text messages.

Beckett: You can't ignore me forever, June. You're going to have to talk to me sooner or later.

I can definitely try to ignore you for as long as possible, though.

Beckett: And I know you're at Ellis's lake house. I saw the pictures she posted of you guys at the bar the other night.

Shit. I was hoping he'd forget I come to Ellis's lake house every summer.

Beckett: You looked beautiful baby.

I shut my eyes tightly and clench my jaw with such intensity that it's a wonder I don't crack a tooth.

I haven't spoken to Beckett since the day we went to get my things for the lake. And despite my deliberate silence, he still tries to call and text me almost daily. He's like the worst version of those spam texts you keep getting after signing up to get ten percent off your order. They just never seem to stop coming.

I've been ignoring them, clinging to the hope that he'll eventually just stop. Or forget. Or get bored of me. Or something other than annoying me daily.

Thankfully, I know that this is his peak season for work. Sales in HVAC systems always surge during the summer, and given his track record as the top seller for the past four years in a row, I know he's swamped. There's no way he'd come all the way out here.

At least I hope so.

I hear Wells laugh heartily, and my attention immediately shifts to him. He's smiling, those little brackets on both sides of his mouth making an appearance, and laughing at something the other barista said. There's no way to overlook the cartwheel that tumbles in my stomach when it happens.

Balancing two cups of coffee and a scone, he starts heading in my direction. In a rush, I type a quick response to Beckett, hit send, and promptly close my messages.

Me: Unsubscribe.

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