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The look of guilt stared back at me. He twiddled with the wallet again.
“You should come in some time. Our brew is to die for.” I took another bite.
The sandwich could use some mayonnaise, and Chase could use some tact.
“What’s your major?” He blurted.
“Finance.” In ninth grade, a teacher told my class that if we wanted to leave our small town lives, college was the best exit strategy. I googled and researched my heart out. Finance was the best paying major outside of being a computer mastermind, which I was not.
Most people choose majors based on passion and lifelong goals. I needed to get away from my mother. Other than that, there wasn’t much else I wanted in life. I needed something different, whatever that meant.
“Wow! You must be really great with numbers. I kind of thought you’d say something edgy and moody, like theatre or journalism. Aren’t you the artsy type?” Artsy? Clearly, my walls were secure and my disguise solid. This guy knew nothing about me. Theatre? No way in hell was I the type to parade across a stage. I like to read dramatic works, not write them. Journalism was a hard pass.
“Really? I’m surprised you didn’t ask me about Mortuary Science or Forensic biology? I don’t think it gets much darker than that?” The FBI probably added me to a watch list for googling those degrees. Oh well, at least I was at the top of someone’s list.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I guess I just pegged you as the bookish type. What were you reading earlier? Wuthering Heights?” Well, that’s a change. He actually noticed me.
Took him long enough.
I wanted to be happy that he recalled such an insignificant detail. Why now? What had changed? He’d passed me on the sidewalk and ignored me in the coffee shop. I was the same person that I’d been a week before. There had to be some reason for the sudden attention when it hadn’t been there before.
“I like talking to you.” He looked from the wallet to me. “It’s fun.”
Fun?
I could show him fun— throw him against the wall, rip off his pants and lick him like a god damned popsicle. Or, maybe I’ll bring the popsicle with to bed with me. I’ll trace his lips and slowly work my way down to that sweet spot just above his collar. The popsicle would melt with the heat of his body.
Oops.
I’ll have to lick every drip before I trace the chiseled muscle of his chest and abs with the frozen treat. Tracing and licking. Licking and tracing.
“So, what do you say?” He interrupts.
“Oh, yes.” Are we talking about the same topic?
He smiled sheepishly. Did I just agree to something? A date? A kiss? Oh, dear God, I’ll take anything but anal.
Chase pulled out his phone. “Ready when you are.”
That was easy. Game on! I am totally ready.
My core tightened as he leaned closer. I smiled up at his curly blonde hair. It was long enough to twist my fingers around two good handfuls.
“Your number?” His lips quirked to the side.
My number. He wanted to call me. Because talking to me was fun. I spewed the digits like a young girl vomiting a secret she shouldn’t have shared. Fuckin’ Olivia!
“How do you feel about popsicles?” If he was allergic, my fantasies might be ruined.
He typed away at his phone before tucking it into his pocket. “You know, it’s funny you ask. My friends laugh at the way I eat a popsicle.” He used his hand to act out each move. “I like to hold the popsicle like this.” He pointed his finger, a.k.a. pretend popsicle, horizontally. “Then I start in the middle and work my way up to the top. That way, I don’t miss a single drop.”
I shoved the last chunk of my sandwich into my mouth. Holy hot mother of God, was he still talking about eating popsicles? Or me? Because he could start at my center and lick his way up at his earliest convenience. Or… any fucking time he wants.
“Hey, hey!” two jocks walked around our table.
“Ten and twenty.” Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb handed Chase two wads of cash.
“Knew you could do it, brother.” One asshole clapped Chase on the back.
