“So—uh—Charlie,” I blurt, grappling for a thought. A sentence. Anything to cover. “Those two tickets I mentioned? For this week? They’re yours if you still want them.”
“Tickets?” Charlie’s brow furrows as he stares at me, but then he lights up. “Oh, tickets? Yes!”
Juliette blinks. “Tickets?”
I nod, looking at Charlie to make sure he’s going along with me. I probably don’t have to cover like this, but the last thing I want to do is spook her. If she figures out we were talking about her, I can almost guarantee a spooking. Like putting your cat in a bath—two great things that donotgo together.
“Yes, tickets to a game. For me,” Charlie says, already delighted. “And Tom, too, of course.”
“Of course,” she says. “I forget that the two of you are a couple of hockey nuts.”
“He adores hockey. We are going to be insufferably happy.” Charlie grins. “Thank you, Sawyer!” Then he heads for the back, already dialing. “Tom? It’s me. Guess what? We are going to a hockey game…”
The moment he disappears, the energy in the shop shifts. We’re left standing and staring at one another. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, noticing the uneasy and awkward flush of heat in my chest. I’d blame it on heartburn, but I’m not a guy who gets it.
I point to the coffee next to the cash register. “Emergency caffeine.”
She smiles, putting the paper she’d been clutching on the counter as she swipes the hot cup, taking a drink. “You have no idea.”
“And…” I open the donut box. “Pick your destiny.”
She hesitates for exactly one second before taking one. Powdered sugar dusts her fingers. She takes a bite and closes her eyes for half a heartbeat like it’s doing something to her.
“By the way, if you and Theo ever want tickets to a game…” I begin, wanting her to know the offer is there. If, and only if, she wants it. But, this kitty only heard me saybath.
“Um…” She nods her head and waves a hand in the air, as if dismissing my words. “Did Charlie tell you how busy we were this weekend?”
I can smell a change of subject when it happens. And when Juliette is staring at me, waiting for an answer with sugar on her lip…
For a moment, I forget about tickets and plants and games and anything else that’s supposed to be between us. All I can see is the dusting of powdered sugar on her bottom lip.
It’s ridiculous. One stupid donut. But it looks like a secret she doesn’t know she’s keeping, and suddenly I’m painfully, irrationally jealous of pastry.
Her mouth curves as she chews, soft and distracted, like she’s momentarily forgotten I’m standing right here. My brain, traitor that it is, does something wildly unhelpful—it starts cataloging. The way her lips move. The way they press together. The faint sheen of sugar. Drawing my attention to that tiny white smudge at the corner, turning her already perfect mouth into something even more…distracting.
I swallow. Focus.
I want to brush it away. Casually. Like this is a normal thing people do for each other. I want to be the thing she tastes instead.
Which is not a thought I am allowed to have.
Absolutely not. Off-limits. Penalized. Two minutes in the box.
I drag my gaze up to her eyes, forcing myself to look anywhere but at those pink, pillowy lips, like if I hold eye contact long enough her mouth will simply cease to exist. Spoiler: it does not. She’s still watching me, head tilted slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching like she’s onto me—or at least aware that something just went sideways.
I clear my throat. Once. Then again, because apparently, I’ve forgotten how my body works.
“You, uh…you’ve got a little?—”
I gesture vaguely at my own mouth, which somehow feels worse than pointing directly, and immediately regret everydecision that led me to this exact moment in time. I should have just saidlip. Orface. Or literally anything else.
Her eyes widen as she blinks at me, then she glances around, clearly searching for a napkin that does not exist. When she comes up empty, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, quick and practical, then looks back at me like she’s bracing for a verdict.
“Better?”
“Yeah,” I say, a little too quickly, though some irrational part of me is disappointed now that the sugar’s gone. “Much.”
Which is ridiculous. I am a grown man. A professional athlete. I can handle the absence of powdered sugar on another person’s face.
