“Kuuu-urt,” Isabelle called from her office.

Kurt sighed and heaved himself from his desk where he was finally making headway on his latest assignment. He popped his head into Isabelle's office and affected his best Igor voice. “You rang, master?”

Isabelle laughed and held out a twenty. “Will you get me a vanilla latte? Two percent milk, please.”

“Yes, of course.”

Isabelle smiled and took on a coy expression, moving her shoulders from side to side, “Your mocha's on me if you'll do me an extra special favor.”

“Name it.”

“Don't go to Starbucks. Go down to 42nd and Park. There's a little coffee truck there called Manhattan Mocha. Go there.”

“You want me to bring you coffee from Grand Central Station?”

“It's not in Grand Central Station; it's on the street. They have the best coffee.”

Kurt narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think you're up to something?”

Isabelle's own eyes opened widely in mock innocence. “Moi?”

Kurt grumbled, “I'll get your coffee, but you're buying me a large.”

It took Kurt a little while to find the right coffee cart, but when he did, he didn't initially see the vendor who was bent down fiddling with something under the counter. Kurt started talking anyway, “Excuse me, I need…”

The man stood up, and Kurt lost all ability to speak. He had curly dark hair, wild eyebrows, and meltingly warm eyes that were brown—no, green—no, something honey and smoldering and indefinable with giraffe eyelashes. He had a wide mouth and a strong chin, and when he smiled, he displayed perfect white teeth. Kurt's breath caught in his throat.

He wasn't the most beautiful man Kurt had ever seen. Kurt worked at Vogue, and he was surrounded every day by men whose job it was to be breathtakingly beautiful, but there was something about this guy to which Kurt was instantly attracted, and it felt like the feeling was mutual. There was too much electricity in the air for only Kurt to sense it.

Time stood still for a second, or maybe forever, and then the man said, “Hi,” rather breathlessly. He looked Kurt over. “You're new here, but any man who dresses as well as you must be a man of exceptional taste and refinement. I have a caramel macchiato made from real Tahitian vanilla, roasted espresso beans, organic steamed milk, and the yummiest…,” the man paused here to lick his lips, “…buttery caramel drizzle you've ever tasted. How about I make a large one for you?”

“Yes,” said Kurt, then his hand flew to his mouth. He didn't want a caramel macchiato. It would have caffeine and milk fat and sugar (so much sugar). He opened his mouth to contradict himself, but the man was already at work.  The barista hummed an opera aria as he worked, and he was surprisingly in tune.

“I just love Verdi, don't you?” the man asked.

“Uh, Verdi. Yeah, sure.”

“Do you work around here?” the man asked as he pulled the lever on the espresso machine.

“Vogue,” Kurt managed to croak.

“Ah, that explains the beautiful clothes on the beautiful man.” Then the man turned around and placed the drink on the counter. He extended a hand, “Blaine.”

Kurt took Blaine's hand. It was unnaturally warm from holding the coffee cup, but even if had been room temperature, Kurt still would have felt a jolt up his arm from the touch. His eyes widened slightly. Blaine held his hand a little longer than was strictly necessary.

“So, what else can I get you?” Blaine asked.

“Oh. A-a-a vanilla latte. Large. With two percent.”

“Coming right up.”

Oh, sure, he could order for Isabelle.

When her drink was ready, Kurt paid Blaine and took a cup in each hand. Blaine leaned over the counter and smoothed Kurt's collar, “I'll see you tomorrow, new guy.”

Kurt walked two blocks before taking a sip of his coffee. It was sweet and creamy and delicious. Kurt could feel it going right to his thighs. With a sigh, he dropped the drink in the trash before taking the latte back to Isabelle.