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“Don’t say anything mean,” Dora warns her. No pause, no stutter. It infuses my chest with secondhand pride.
Zoe’s face finally settles on surprise. “Ramos, you were marginally cool before. Now you’re on a pedestal. You were here”––she motions with her hand somewhere around the middle of her chest––“now you’re here.” The hand shoots above her head.
“Thanks for the visual. We wouldn’t have understood otherwise.” Blake smiles wryly.
Planting both palms on the table, Zoe leans in. “I need to know everything. Do they make out in front of you, and can I come over and watch?”
“Awww, Zoe,” spills out of me.
“C’mon, Zo,” Blake adds.
Dora rolls her eyes. “I’d rather not contemplate my parents’ sex life––and, no, you can’t.”
A loud rap at the window startles us. Outside, on the sidewalk, Reagan and Dallas wave. Dallas’s expression is all happy, sly mischief. Reagan’s on the other hand is straight-up determination.
All I need is another public scene.
“Speaking of assholes and idiots,” Zoe absently mutters.
I snort. “That’s not what we were discussing.”
“We are now. Game face on. Do not be nice to him.”
“Zoe…”
As soon as they step inside, Reagan heads for our table while Dallas makes for the register. I’m getting the full treatment, the unblinking stare, all of his undivided attention. Try as they may, not even the whistles and shouts of his loyal fandom can distract him.
Resentment and longing flood my veins, every fiber in my body feeling the effects of it. And by effects I don’t mean good ones. My pulse races while my stomach twists into knots and bows.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches our table.
I finally allow myself a good, hard look. His white t-shirt offsets his tan. His silky black track pants…well, frankly, they outline things I shouldn’t be looking at. He seems to have grown even more tempting in the separation. Wonderful.
Dora and Blake return a tight, “Hi.” Zoe opts to go with a disgruntled face.
“Hello,” I add a long moment later because I won’t allow him to turn me into a rude person.
He aims a smiling glance at the girl sitting on the bench at the next table and she immediately perks up. “Do you mind,” he says to her. “I need to sit with my friend.”
In that case, he needs a dictionary app so he can look up the definition of friendship. “Yes, she does mind,” I snap.
“No, I don’t,” girl-at-next-table insists and sends me an admonishing glare.
He’s all yours, sweetie, hangs from the tip of my tongue. Just dangles there. On the ready to be dropped.
She scoots over to make room for him and he squeezes in, despite my lack of invitation. Then he angles his body, giving her his back. Can’t say I didn’t warn her.
Sitting beside me, he takes up all the space like he’s entitled to it. Which, being six-foot two inches of solid muscle, means he’s everywhere at once. His leg, from hip to knee, touches mine. His scent, soap and laundry detergent and a hint of chlorine, is in the air. He’s too close. He’s much too close. By design, I’m sure.
“No, really, make yourself at home, Reynolds. We’re so psyched that you would bestow upon us the gift of your illustrious company,” drawls Zoe. Watching him closely, she raps four short, midnight blue nails on the wooden table. I shoot her a thin-lipped glare that screams cut it out and she rolls her eyes at me.
Reagan extends his arm on the back of the bench, shifts closer to me. To my great annoyance. “My pleasure,” he chirps with a wry smile.
His head dips, his mouth almost touching my ear. “I need to speak to you,” he whispers. The vibration resonates against the sensitive skin on the side of my neck. The warmth of his breath teases a full-body shiver out of me. My temperature shoots up. Apparently feverish isn’t just a turn of phrase.
“Can we have dinner? Like tonight? I need to explain and I really don’t want to do it with an audience.”
Before I have a chance to speak, Dallas returns with two large take-out cups and hands one to Reagan. Thanking him, he places it on the table next to mine.
“Fancy seeing you here, Bailey. We were just talking about you,” Dallas takes pleasure in telling me.
Reagan’s head rolls back. He palms his face. “Dall…” There’s an edge to his voice. This obviously leads me to wonder what they were discussing.
“What?” Dallas says, wearing the most suspiciously innocent look I’ve ever seen.
“Don’t,” Reagan warns him.
Dallas shrugs. His blue eyes take a lap around the table and come to rest on Dora. They sharpen. Curiosity blankets his face. “Do I know you?”
Dora squirms under his intense examination, doing everything in her power to avoid eye contact.
“Weren’t you at that Theta UCLA mixer? You’re Cat Woman, right? With the vinyl getup and the red lips?”
