His Beauty Her Beast
The milk hit the perfect 140°F mark, and I yanked the pan off the stove like it had personally offended me.
One. Dash. Of. Cinnamon.
I hovered over the cup, heart thumping, and gave it a tiny flick.
Not a sprinkle too much.
Not a sprinkle too little.
A flick that could make or break my day.
The cup looked harmless enough, but to me, it was a gamble. I held it like it was gold as I walked back to his office, praying to the caffeine gods and every higher power I could think of.
I knocked on his door with the most controlled hand I could manage.
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