GATHERED UP
A Portland Heat Collection
Books by Annabeth Albert
The Portland Heat Series
Bundled Up:
Served Hot
Baked Fresh
Delivered Fast
Gathered Up:
Knit Tight
Wrapped Together
Danced Close
The Perfect Harmony Series
Treble Maker
Love Me Tenor
All Note Long
Gathered Up
A Portland Heat Collection
Annabeth Albert
LYRICAL SHINE PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
Lyrical Press books are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2016, 2017 by Annabeth Albert
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
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Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.
First Electronic Edition: December 2017
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0796-4
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0796-9
First Print Edition: December 2017
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0797-1
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0797-7
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To all the #PortlandHeat fans who have supported this series from book one, especially those who have shared their love for the series. Every review, like, share, mention, and note of support has been so appreciated. You all are the reason this series will always have a very special place in my heart.
Table of Contents
Wrapped Together
Danced Close
Portland Heat
Annabeth Albert
LYRICAL SHINE PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Chapter 1
“You’re my favorite barista,” the girl said with a self-conscious giggle. She was all of eighteen, if that, and reminded me of my sister, with her wispy hair and pale skin.
“Tonight I’m the only barista.” I took a breath, kept my tone light, and didn’t give in to the urge to sigh heavily.
I grabbed a mug to get her latte started. Wednesday nights were our busiest of the week, and I was stuck working alone because my coworker had called in sick. I hated Wednesdays, but I wasn’t in a position to turn down hours. As it was, our boss had been slashing staff for the evening shifts, citing cost-cutting measures, so he hadn’t seen fit to give me a backup.
“You’re the best barista I’ve got, Brady. You can handle it,” he’d said on the phone, in his usual offhand manner. He didn’t like to be bothered with what he deemed trivial stuff. So I was alone to face Wednesday hell, better known as Knit Night, the weekly event in which a horde of women and their baskets of fibers descended on the coffee shop. But they all bought at least one drink and that meant tips in my jar.
And I was a damn fine barista, something I reminded myself as I put a little flair into making the girl’s drink. She came here for this after all—the little bit of a show as I flipped the mug and steamed the milk, the latte-art smiley face I finished the drink with, the winning smile I dredged up as I handed it over. For an instant I made her feel like she was the sole focus of my attention instead of the line of traffic behind her. That was my skill, the one that was going to elevate me from Brady the barista to Brady the national-champion barista and alleviate a whole shitload of problems.
Buzz. From deep in my black apron pocket, my phone vibrated against my thigh. Hell. One of those problems was undoubtedly slipping into a crisis state, but I couldn’t risk fishing the phone out with a line of customers. I’d have to hope that my sister could hold down the fort at home and that whatever it was could wait for a lull in the rush.
The next order was the girl’s friend, another latte, another smiley face, but I made the mistake of glancing up at the door as I worked. The next customer to come in was the hottest guy I’d seen in a very long time. He had artfully styled black hair, the sort of purposefully messy cut that probably cost three digits and took twenty minutes in the morning to perfect. His slim-fitting jeans also looked designer—a rich color somewhere between brown and black and a subtle sheen to the fabric. A fancifully wrapped scarf over a close-fitting, long-sleeved shirt would probably get noticed by the Knit Night ladies, which was exactly what I did not want to have happen.
Our eyes met as I drew the latte art with a stirring stick, and he grinned widely at me. Gorgeous rose-pink lips and perfect white teeth straight out of a dental ad, and—
Frak me. I flubbed the smiley face, distracted by my efforts to memorize the handsome stranger. Rather than hand over a squiggly mess, I chucked the cup and started over. The girl didn’t seem to care as she was deep in conversation with her friend at the end of the bar.
“Sorry about the wait,” I said to the guy when it was finally his turn and he moved up to order. His intent gaze coupled with his polished appearance made me more conscious of my untrimmed beard and scruffy ponytail and made me wish I was wearing something a bit nicer than a faded People’s Cup T-shirt.
“It is no problem,” the guy said. He had a gorgeous voice—deep and polished, like a shiny piece of ebony. He had the fast speech and clipped consonants of an