Accidentally Amy

A stolen latte results in a meet-cute for the ages in this brand-new edition, with bonus content, of Isabella Shay is usually a very honest person. But when she’s running late for her first day at her dream job and the barista yells for “Amy” three times with no answer, she does the unthinkable. Izzy takes that PSL. It’s the exact drink she ordered and paid for, only way further ahead in the queue--and she’ll take whatever bad karma is coming for her; she’s desperate and very late. But when she turns around and runs directly into the most attractive man she’s ever seen, spilling the drink all over his made-for- Izzy reasons she can just straighten things out the next day, no biggie. Only when she gets to her new office and meets the VP of her department, it is none other than Blake Phillips--the hottie from Starbucks. And the man might’ve been charming to “Amy,” but he is an arrogant grump to Izzy, an arrogant grump who does not find her explanation funny at all. But day by day, an attraction simmers between them and they’ll have to find a way to work together without ripping each other’s heads--or clothes--off.

Auteur
Lynn Painter is the New York Times bestselling author of Better Than the Movies and Mr. Wrong Number. She writes romantic comedies for teens and adults, and when she isn't reading or writing, she can usually be found binge-watching rom-coms or shotgunning energy drinks.

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Chapter One

Izzy

"Amy?"

I sighed impatiently and watched as the barista yelled out the name (not mine), then set down the cup. I could see it was a Venti pumpkin spice latte, the same drink I'd ordered, and I found myself wildly jealous of PSL Amy, whoever she might be.

Because I wanted-no, needed-to get my drink and get the hell out of there.

Please yell Izzy next. Please yell Izzy next.

If I were a responsible adult, I would've seen the long line at Starbucks and opted not to get a coffee that morning. But it was the first day of the PSL-arrival day-so my annual vice refused to be denied, regardless of the fact that I was starting a new job in T minus thirty minutes.

Yes, I was taking quite the moronic risk.

My new employer, Ellis Enterprises, was a big tech company with a reputation for being environmentally conscious and employee-friendly. They had workout facilities, a childcare center, a free cafeteria, and a 4:00 p.m. daily happy hour; Ellis was renowned for being a great place to work.

Which meant that I was definitely going to punch myself in the face if my lack of self-discipline made me late on the very first day.

"Amy?" The barista said it again, and I looked around the busy coffee shop. There was a group of women at a big table on the other side of the café, all dressed in athletic clothes and looking like barre fitness models; perhaps one of them was Amy.

I felt like PSL Amy was quickly becoming my nemesis.

Come get your coffee, Amy, you lucky son of a bitch.

I glanced down at my watch and stifled a groan. Shit, shit, shit. If they didn't call my name in the next three minutes-and they probably wouldn't, because there were a lot of empty cups sitting in front of the espresso machine-I was going to have to kiss that overpriced drink goodbye and abort the mission.

"Amy!" The barista said it again, sounding agitated this time, and before I had time to think, I heard myself mutter-

"I'm Amy."

And . . . I reached out and grabbed the cup.

I knew it was wrong, I really did, but I needed to go and I needed that drink and I'd already paid, so it wasn't really stealing, right? And obviously Amy was in no hurry whatsoever. She'd probably changed her mind and had already left the building. Surely that was a possibility.

Right?

I put my palm over the name Amy, closed my fingers around the cup, and turned, ready to sprint out of the shop before some Starbucks security officer tackled me to the ground for my egregious PSL thievery, or Amy herself appeared before me.

But then I rammed right into a wall.

"Gah!" Oh, my God. It wasn't a wall at all, but a rock-hard chest, encased in a starched white dress shirt and a charcoal tie. I stared in horror as my cup crushed on impact, the lid popped off, and hot pumpkin coffee splurted all over the chest. "I'm so sorry!"

I looked up and-whoa.

You know how in movies everything can freeze when a character sees the Big Thing? Well, that was happening to me as I made eye contact with Mr. Chest. He was looking down at me with dark eyes, really intense dark eyes that weren't so much brown as they were the richest shade of burnt amber. His eyebrows were black, his hair was black, his perfectly maintained scruff was black, and even his suit was black, which all worked together to form some sort of contrasting frame for his face's gorgeous bone structure and perfectly shaped mouth.

He was like Roy Kent's taller American brother or something, and I didn't think I was physically capable of closing my mouth at that moment.

Until I felt the hot coffee seeping into my own shirt.

That made the moment unfreeze itself. I muttered another charming, "Gahhhh," tossed my crumpled cup (RIP PSL) into the trash can, and grabbed a stack of napkins from the end of the counter.

"I can't believe I ran right into you," I babbled, rubbing the clump of napkins over his shirt with one hand while I dabbed at my own (thank God it was black) with the other. I was kind of mashing the napkins against the man's chest, patting and dabbing and trying to do anything to make the huge splotch of coffee disappear. "One minute I was grabbing my drink, the next I was ramming your chest with boiling latte. I'm not even sure-"

"It's fine." His voice was dark, too, rich and baritone and a little bit raspy. I glanced up, and he was giving me a half smile, like he was entertained by the impromptu pectoral rubdown, and something about that look hit me square in the gut. He said, "I hated this shirt anyway."

I dropped my hands and said, "I did, too, but I didn't know how to tell you. Hence the PSL."

He gave a little laugh. "Subtle, but effective."

I set the napkins on the bar top beside us and bit down on my lower lip to stop myself from grinning. Because I should feel bad about scalding the man, right? Smiling is not the appropriate reaction here, correct? I cleared my throat and said, "I really am sorry. I'd be happy to get it dry-cleaned for you or something . . . ? A better person would offer to replace it, but I have a feeling it's out of my price range."

He did the half-bark, half-laugh sound again that I could feel in my toes, and he said, "What makes you say that?"

"It's soaking wet and I still can't see through it. That has to mean it's quality."

"Were you trying to?" he asked.

"What-see through your shirt?"

He gave a nod.

I shrugged. "I wasn't trying, per se, but I am a curious girl. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't checking for a third nipple."

He didn't say anything for a minute, still sort of smiling but now with a tiny wrinkle between his brows, and I knew my cheeks were turning red. Did you really just say third nipple, you dumbass? Sometimes I wondered why it was so difficult for me to just keep my mouth shut.

He cleared his throat and said, "I promise there isn't one, not that there's anything wrong with having three."

I did grin then. "I mean, the more the merrier, right?"

His mouth split into a slow, wide smile that was oddly powerful. It was almost like I felt it pass over me, like hot summer sun warming cool skin. "Are we sure that applies here?"

"Definitely not, but I couldn't let a moment pass without speaking," I said.

"I can see that about you."

"Hey," I said with a dose of fake offense, "just because I scald…