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"I can get it," he says.
"You're doing me a favor." I hand the barista my credit card. "I'm getting it."
"You don't have a job."
"And?"
"Where do you get your money?"
Since when does he worry about that kind of thing? I try to keep the mood light. To tease him. "I'm a secret cam girl. I go by Missy MegaTits." I feign shock. "Oh no, my secret's out."
He gives me one of those long, slow once-overs. Assessing my earning potential as a cam girl? Or something else?
"Do you have experience with members of my profession?" I try to keep my tone silly, but my voice disobeys my intent. It drops to something low and breathy.
"Never paid for it."
"Just regular old cyber-sex?"
"Tried it once," he says. "Wasn't really my thing."
The barista looks at us with mild annoyance. He's not at all interested in tales of our sex life.
He wants us to shut up or get out of his space.
It's not possible. The shop is ten feet wide, at most, and the counter takes up half the space.
Still. I worked at a coffee shop all summer. I know annoying clients. I mouth sorry, move to the front, motion for Oliver to follow.
He does.
It only puts five feet between us and the barista, but it's the best we can do.
"You couldn't do it," Oliver says. "You have to take orders from customers."
"You think I can't take orders?" I mean to say it in a playful fuck you kind of way. Instead, I say it in an I dare you to order me out of my clothes way.
His pupils dilate. His tongue slides over his lips. He stares back at me for a second. Almost like he is going to dare me. But he doesn't. "Name one time you have."
"I listen to my coach."
"Uh-huh."
"You think I want to suffer a hundred hundreds?"
"Maybe. But you don't listen to me." He shrugs, trying to sell casual, failing to hide the desire in his voice.
Thankfully, the barista interrupts. Calls out our drinks.
I keep mine black.
Oliver lightens his cold brew with whole milk and simple syrup.
"How do you drink that?" I ask.
"I put the straw in my mouth and suck."
"It's too sweet."
"It's good."
I shake my head no way.
He offers me a sip.
Okay, fine. My fingers brush his as I take the cup.
His gaze stays fixed on my lips.
There's intent in his eyes. Like we both know he's picturing my lips wrapped around something else—
Or maybe I'm imagining things.
Why am I imagining things?
Oliver isn't my friend, exactly, but we're friendly. I know him well. Yes, he's sexy and tattooed and troubled.
With that dark hair and those deep eyes.
And I…
Uh…
The point is, yes, Oliver is attractive. But it doesn't affect me like this. Even if I occasionally think about him naked.
Or picture his hands in my hair.
Or his lips on my thighs.
I, uh… "What was Holden talking about?" I reach for some way to change the subject.
He runs a hand through his hair. Fights a look of displeasure. "Holden bullshit."
"Right." I take a long sip of my iced Americano. Let out a low sigh. Fuck, that's good. Rich and nutty and refreshing.
He looks at me funny, but he doesn't say anything.
"Anything interesting?"
"My hiatus."
"Oh."
"What?"
"I just thought… I know you guys are awkward, since Daisy—"
"Since he broke his promise to look out for her?" His voice drips with anger. In an Oliver way. Restrained. Hurt.
I want to hold him, comfort him, convince him it's okay.
And tell him he's an idiot. Daisy is an adult. She can choose to date anyone she wants. Even if it's kind of messed up dating her brother's best friend.
Not that I'm contemplating a similar idea.
I would never.
Daisy is my best friend. I'm not risking that.
Or my place to stay.
I'm just—
Ahem. "I thought you'd have told him."
"You know Holden. Makes everything into something."
True. And Oliver tends to hold his cards close. Sure, he's free with dirty stories or tales of drunken debauchery. But he rarely shares the serious stuff. "Is it something?"
He shrugs. "Just a thing I'm trying." He motions to the door. Moves toward it at a quick clip.
I rush after him. "Is there a reason? Why he thinks it's a thing?" It's definitely a thing. If he's running away from it so quickly.
I don't mind walking fast—I have long legs, after all, and I'm in comfortable shoes—but this isn't really his thing.
He's not slow. More purposeful.
This is something else.
"You need to grab anything at home first?" he asks. "Or should we go straight to your parents' place?"
"We can go straight there."
"You actually need someone to carry stuff?"
"Kinda. I need my clothes. My makeup. Books. It's a lot."
"We can take the car."
I nod. "My car is there. And you don't have space for another."
"We can take my car."
I bite my lip. "Oh. Sure. But, uh, I didn't ask you for your biceps."
